


The Wolf in December

by Lithos_Maitreya



Series: A Witcher on Remnant [1]
Category: RWBY, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-11 03:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7874398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lithos_Maitreya/pseuds/Lithos_Maitreya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt, having followed Ciri into another world, walks into a monster's hut and changes the lives of the Xiao Long/Rose family forever.</p>
<p>Now if only he could find HIS daughter too...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This thing should be about three chapters long, I think. Not quite short enough to make into a one-shot, but short enough that I could write it without feeling too bad about not writing my other stuff.
> 
> Haven’t played Hearts of Stone or Blood and Wine yet, so this ignores them. (Don’t tell me I should—I know. Ain’t got time at this point, but plan to make it a priority.)

“Come on, up you get.”

The voice which awoke her was deep, masculine, and raspy with age and long periods of disuse. Her eyes flickered open slowly as the metal-tipped toe of a boot gently nudged her side as she lay in the straw.

“I haven’t got all day,” said the voice, dryly.

She blinked and pushed herself up, looking up at her alarm. Sleep-hazed silver eyes met sharp catlike golden ones.

There was an instinctual tremor in her heart, a flicker of fear, of disgust, for the alien creature before her. Man’s shape, cat’s eyes, brutal scars, and an unkempt face greeted her as she looked up.

She saw him notice her reaction. She saw the golden eyes frost over slightly.

Then he blinked and knelt down, squatting beside her curled form on the balls of his feet. “What’s your name?” he asked lowly.

“Summer,” she told him truthfully. “Summer Rose.”

He nodded. “Geralt of Rivia,” he said. “Witcher. Any idea how you got here?”

She blinked and sat up, looking around. They were in some sort of hovel: rickety beams of poorly-sanded wood walled them in, and a faint coating of straw lined the floor, fallen from the thatch of the roof.

The entire room—indeed, the house, for it was a one-room affair—seemed basically bare. A single door broke the monotony of one wall, a single window another. A table sat under the window, a rickety, barely-upright thing. On it was one of two signs of any habitation: by the flickering light she could see from her vantage, a single candle flickered on it. The other sign was the old bed in the corner, with a wooden frame that rot had started to get to, and a mattress that looked little better.

“No,” she answered at length. “The last thing I remember… I was headed for a village in Forever Fall. There was a Grimm incursion on a village, and I was supposed to deal with it… I think?” Her memory felt fuzzy somehow, and she was sure she was missing something.

“Where were you coming from?” Geralt asked.

This she knew. “Patch,” she said with certainty. “I was coming from the house on Patch; I took a ferry to downtown Vale and then headed north.”

“You got too far then,” Geralt said. “Forever Fall’s borders end a few miles south of here. You’re in the Blackmarsh.”

She stared at him blankly. “How did I get _here_?” she asked. Humans didn’t go to the Blackmarsh, which covered the territory north of Vale between the Kingdom and the coast; there had, historically, almost never been any settlements between Vale proper and Port North on the coast, which served as an intermediate stop for trade between the Continent and Mistral or Atlas. None of those made had ever lasted long.

“Good question,” said Geralt grimly. “You having any trouble remembering what happened, or is it clear, but it just doesn’t add up?”

She shook her head slowly. “It gradually gets fuzzy after I get off the boat at Vale,” she told him. “I remember going through the city, and then… snatches of road, and… someone? A man?”

Geralt nodded and stood. “Sounds about right,” he said. “By the way… what’s the date?”

She blinked. “October twenty-third was when I got off the boat,” she said. “It shouldn’t have taken me more than a few hours to reach the village.

Geralt watched her impassively. “The year?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “71 Post-war,” she said slowly. “1436 by the old calendar.”

He sighed. “Yeah, you’ve been here a while,” he said grimly. “Which means if he was strong enough to enthrall you _before_ , I’d better be careful.”

She stood. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice rising. “What’s going on?”

“Summer, my love?” A new voice broke in from outside: warm, silken, and thick as flowing honey pouring over her mind and she sank into it inexorably, a soft fog settling over her until she knew no more.

* * *

 

Geralt sighed as the woman’s silver eyes glazed over. Her turned to the door, already opening.

The incubus’ green eyes widened as he saw the visitor. “Oh, we have a visitor! Summer, my dear, you did not tell me you were having a guest over!”

Summer Rose passed him, moving as if in a dream, and wrapped her arms around the

Geralt’s face set as he studied the monster. “You know what I am?” he asked quietly.

“If by that you mean ‘human’ then yes, of course!” The incubus’ voice was jovial. “Although those eyes are intriguing—almost as entrancing as my dear Summer’s! Why, if I were a Succubus, or otherwise inclined to your sex, I might just gobble you up instead of her!”

“Incubi don’t eat people,” Geralt corrected the monster.

The incubus rolled his eyes. “I think _I_ ought to know that, don’t you?” he said chidingly. “It’s a figure of speech, my dear intruder. But don’t you think you’ve overstayed your welcome? Summer and I were just going to have dinner.” He held up the two rabbits he held in one hand as evidence, one hoofed foot tapping the ground impatiently.

Geralt’s eyes didn’t waver from the incubus’ face. “You’re old,” he deduced, “and experienced. You’ve managed to make one woman, slavishly devoted to you, last long enough to feed you for, what, eleven years?”

“Nearly twelve now,” the creature sighed wistfully. It smiled down at Summer, then looked at him sharply. “But how do you know so much about my kind?” he asked, and he was no longer jovial. “We’re barely myths to you; our sisters are better remembered, and even they scarcely get a mention.”

Geralt cocked his head. “You really haven’t seen one of us before,” he said wonderingly.

“One of who?” the incubus was wary now.

Geralt fingered at his medallion, a wolf’s head cast in silver. “You don’t recognize this?” he asked.

“Not at all. Should I?”

“Hm.” Geralt looked out the window. “Guess Ciri really did pull us a long way from home.” He looked back at the incubus. “I’m a Witcher,” he said darkly.

“A what?”

Geralt’s right hand came up to his back and grasped at his silver sword. Its draw mechanism popped into a proper grip, and he pulled it down to a wolf-school ready stance. “She’s a Huntress,” he said, nodding at Summer. “it’s her job to fight Grimm. It’s _my_ job to fight monsters.”

The incubus’ eyes widened. “A _monster_? Me?”

“It’s a technical term,” said Geralt, his left hand slipping to his grenade pouch. “For creatures allergic to silver.”

The Dimeritium Bomb flew from his hands without warning, detonating on the ground beneath Summer and the incubus’ feet. The green cloud, tinged with lightning, filled the entire hut immediately, and Geralt felt the familiar thrum of magic die in his fingertips.

Summer collapsed like a marionette with cut strings and the incubus howled in rage. “You’ll pay for that, worm!” it screeched, and lunged.

Geralt was used to fighting monsters of two kinds. There were dumb necrophages and lower specters, the more beastly relicts, and other creatures too dumb to know one human from another but with a keen instinct for vicious combat, and then there were intelligent vampires, succubae, higher relicts, and the like, with the intellect to know they were fighting a trained monster hunter and the wisdom to be cautious and careful.

This incubus had never seen a Witcher, and practically impaled himself on Geralt’s silver sword, thinking it was relatively harmless steel.

Geralt took no satisfaction in the man-like monster’s screech of agony, instead taking the opportunity to finish his work efficiently, with a neat slash across the creature’s torso, nearly bisecting it and quickly quieting its screams to a fait dying gurgle.

He blinked a few times at the corpse before kneeling, cleaning his sword on a cloth, sheathing it, and pulling out his knife. Extracting a mutagen was bloody work—indeed, the ‘mutagen’ was literally a treated extract from the creature’s blood and a few organs—but it was central to the trade.

* * *

 

“Geralt?” Summer’s voice broke into his meditation. A few hours had passed, which was good—being free of the incubus’ magic for that long would likely have cleared her head more than the quick nullification he’d run before.

He’d moved her away from the pooling blood as soon as it began to spread—no need to make it harder on her when she awoke—and lay her on the bed while he continued his work. Once the mutagen had been extracted and all he could salvage from the body had been gleaned, he’d taken the corpse outside and tossed it deeper into the woods, sprinkled with silver to keep it from attracting Leshens or necrophages—not that he knew, for certain, that Leshens even existed on Remnant. (He could confirm the existence of some necrophage breeds, having seen unmistakable signs of Drowner passage on the coastline near Port North before he’d come south.)

He really needed to get a Remnan bestiary set up. This was getting ridiculous. He should probably be thankful that the monsters that _were_ here were familiar… with the one obvious exception.

His golden eyes opened as he came out of his meditation. “Summer,” he said aloud. He was kneeling outside the open door, facing out, and he didn’t turn to her when he heard the bed creaking as she sat up.

“That’s a lot of blood,” she said dryly. “I assume Althern’s dead?”

“Was that his name?” Geralt asked dryly. “I didn’t ask. He’s dead.”

“Good,” said Summer, satisfied. “Now, I remember things a little better. Do you even care at this point?”

Geralt shrugged. “Nice to have someone recognize I’m not their therapist,” he said wryly. “But go ahead if you want to.”

There was a pause.

“You probably already figured it all out,” she said.

He nodded. “You met him right after you got off the ferry,” he said. “He traveled north with you, ensorcelling you bit by bit, until he eventually got you off the path to the village and brought you here. And here you stayed, his life-force dairy cow.”

“I think it’s my aura he was feeding on,” Summer said, and she sounded tired. “It’s low, and it feels like it’s been low for a _long_ time. How… how long have I been here?”

“Almost twelve years,” Geralt said, his head turning about to look at her. “He probably kept you from aging—a lot of monsters have ways to do that to the people they feed on, like vampires can when they keep their victims alive. I’m sorry.”

She was looking down at the drying pool of blood, and her crimson-tipped hair was hiding her face. “I had two daughters when I left,” she said quietly. “One was four, the other was six. I… I hope they’ve been okay.”

“Look at it this way,” Geralt said, standing and stretching slightly. “You’re alive, and you can see them again. That’s better than a lot of the alternatives.”

She looked up at him and smiled. Her eyes were wet. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” she said steadily. “Will you come with me? help me explain? They’ll never believe me without some kind of proof.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’ll help you if you can help me,” he offered. “It shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I have a feeling I owe you quite a few favors,” Summer said wryly. “Or possibly a lot of money.”

Geralt grinned. “It’s against the Witchers’ code to do our job without pay,” he admitted. “So I need to get something out of this. I’ll be fine if you just put me in touch with a decent mage.”

Her eyebrow cocked. “Most people would think you’re crazy if you started talking about mages and magic,” she said, standing up and daintily walking around the circle before stepping outside beside him. “I’m not most people.”

She looked down at herself then, taking in her attire. She was wearing little more than rags—enough to cover her, which was more than could be said for most succubae Geralt had known, and thus surprised him, given that an incubus had been keeping her, but likely not the clothes she had arrived in.

“Wish a knew what happened to my cloak and battleskirt,” she said dryly. “Oh well. Let’s get moving. We’re headed south to Vale. You’ll want to talk to Ozpin.”

“He a mage?” Geralt asked.

She glanced at him oddly. “He might be,” she said slowly. “But either way, he knows more _about_ magic and mages than anyone else I could put you in touch with. He’s the best I can do, and I have a feeling he’ll be enough.”

Geralt nodded. “Thanks, then.” He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

Roach—not the same mare that had carried him across Temeria and Nilfgaard for years, but a new creature he’d gotten in Remnant upon arrival—came cantering from the shadow of the woods where he’d been grazing. Summer blinked at him.

“Does it just come to you wherever you are?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Sort of,” he said, mounting. “Hope you don’t mind sharing the saddle.”

She answered by pulling herself behind him. “You know the way?”

“I know the way to a hill,” he said, “high enough that we can probably see lights from some village in Forever Fall, at least.”

“That’ll do,” she agreed. “Let’s go.”

He nodded, clicked his tongue, and struck Roach gently with his heels. “Run, Roach!”

And run Roach did.

* * *

 

Roach was a fast horse, and they’d made good time, but it wasn’t enough to get them into civilization that day, given that as they’d departed the sun had already been sinking low into the horizon.

Geralt had only one bedroll, but he lent it to Summer. He himself knelt in preparation for a night spent in that meditative position he had been in when she woke.

Summer watched him for a time as he grew still, before speaking in a whisper. “Geralt? Are you awake?”

“I’m not going to sleep,” he replied immediately, lowly. “Just rest. It’s a way to make time pass you by if you can’t sleep, without burning any energy.”

She nodded. “Keeping watch?” she asked.

He nodded, his eyes still shut.

She looked up at the stars. “Why are you here?” she asked eventually. The ride on horseback had been mostly silent save for navigation, as she concentrated on conserving and restoring aura and he steered the horse. “Where are you from? What’s your story?”

Geralt gave a dry chuckle. “Take forever to explain,” he said.

“We’ve got time,” Summer said.

He cracked an eye open and glanced at her. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m curious,” she said honestly. “You’ve got a skillset and equipment like no one I’ve seen before, and you dealt with Althern like it was nothing.”

“Mm.” Geralt’s grunt was considering and noncommittal. “The Incubus would’ve been a lot more dangerous if he’d known what he was dealing with. Never encountered one of his kind that didn’t, actually.”

“And what _was_ he dealing with?” she asked.

Geralt looked at her properly, his golden eyes flickering in the moonlight. “A Witcher,” he said. “Professional monster hunter. It’s my job to hunt down things like him.”

“What was he, then?” she pressed. “An Incubus, you called him?”

“Male version of a Succubus,” Geralt said with a nod. “Capable of bewitching people—heterosexual women and homosexual men—into serving or at least yielding to it. It feeds off their life-force—aura, you called it.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and cast her mind around her body, trying to diagnose herself. “It uses its thralls for… other things, too, doesn’t it?” she asked grimly.

Geralt looked away. “You said you had daughters,” he said. “I assume that means it didn’t take your virginity, at least.”

“No,” she said, fighting the bile that rose in her throat. “No, there’s that.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said.

There was silence.

She shook her head. “Well, what brought a Witcher to the Blackmarsh, then?” she asked, to distract herself.

“To Remnant, more like,” he said dryly. “I’m following someone—a girl, about twenty, with ashen hair and green eyes.” He glanced at her. “Let me know if you see someone like that,” he added.

She nodded. “Will do,” she agreed. “Who is she?”

There was a pause.

“My daughter,” said Geralt, and his voice was low and rich with feeling. “She brought me here, but we got separated.”

“Here, as in to Remnant?”

“They call her the Lady of Space and Time,” Geralt said, looking up at the stars. “She has… powers. She can travel from one world to another like you and I would walk to a house down the street. We were traveling together, but we got to Remnant in the middle of an attack by those Grimm. We were separated. I need to find her.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, echoing him.

He nodded, but was silent.

“Are you worried about her?” she asked then.

“Always,” he said with a light chuckle. “But no more than usual. Ciri can take care of herself. Maybe better than I can.”

She nodded and looked back up at the sky. “I hope you find her,” she said.

“So do I,” he answered, his eyes closing again. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you after the sun rises.”

She rolled over and closed her eyes, trying to keep her mind from drifting back to what Althern must have been doing to her for twelve years, even if she couldn’t remember it.

* * *

 

“Welcome to Vale,” she said, slipping off of Roach. Geralt followed suit. They were on a grassy plain on the outskirts of the city, and two Atlesian soldiers were watching them from the edge of the buidlings.

“Those airships look Atlesian,” Geralt said quietly. “Is that normal?”

She looked at him wryly. “I’ve been gone for a decade, Geralt,” she said. “How should I know what’s normal anymore?”

Geralt nodded, his face set. “Let me do the talking,” he said, stepping forward toward the soldiers.

“Hey there, strangers,” one said as they approached. “You, a faunus, with those eyes?”

Geralt grinned slightly, golden eyes flashing. “Long story,” he said. “Short answer no. Been out of the kingdoms a while; what’s Atlas doing in Vale?”

“Here for security,” the soldier said promptly. “Vytal festival’s on. We’re here to make sure it goes smoothly.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “That your call or Vale’s?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t deal with the politics of it, man,” he said evenly. “I just do what I’m ordered. There hasn’t been any kind of hostile takeover, if that’s what you’re wondering. Vale and Atlas are still definitely allies.”

Geralt watched him for a moment before nodding. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Like I said, been missing for a while. Lot can change in that time.”

The solder nodded. “I get it,” he said. “Go on in, but don’t cause any trouble. Vytal festival’s exciting enough, what with the tournament. Don’t need any brawls to add to it. There’ll be stables where you can leave the horse; you probably don’t want to bring it downtown.”

Geralt snorted. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, passing the man. Summer followed with a nod to the Atlesian.

“Seems like it’s safe for us,” Geralt said as they entered the streets of the suburb. “Where should we go?”

Summer pointed at the great, luminous spires of Beacon Academy. “There,” she said. “Ozpin’ll be there; that’s Beacon, his school.”

Geralt nodded. “Anyway to get there faster than horseback?” he asked.

She nodded as an idea hit her. “Follow me.” She turned around and returned to the soldier who had let them in.

“Excuse me, sir?” she asked politely.

He turned around to face them. “Yes, Miss?” he asked.

“Missus,” she corrected. “Could I borrow your scroll, please? I lost mine, and I need to make a call.”

The man looked slightly abashed. “My scroll has military information on it,” he said.

“Mine doesn’t,” said his comrade, pulling it out of his pocket. It was a tiny, thin thing, transparent and magnificently high-tech—a far cry from the blocky things Summer remembered. “Here you go, Ma’am.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said graciously, opening the scroll as best she could—it took some fiddling—and tapping the screen (the screen was touch-sensitive!) to put in Ozpin’s number. She hoped it was the same as she remembered.

She held it to her ear, and it was soon answered.

“This is Ozpin,” the familiar voice, not a day older than she remembered. “Who is this… and how do you have this number?”

“Ozpin,” she murmured, a weight she hadn’t even noticed lifting from her shoulders. “It’s Summer. I’m alive.”

There was silence on the line for a moment.

“I have locked on to your scroll’s coordinates,” said Ozpin, his voice perfectly steady, but she knew the man and could detect the undercurrent of wildness, of disbelief. “Stay there—a bullhead is coming to pick you up.”

“I’ve got someone with me,” she said. “What’s a bullhead?”

“Airship,” he said shortly. “There will be room for your friend. _Stay there_ , Summer. I—” he seemed to choke on his words. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised.

“See you soon,” she said, smiling, and fiddled with the scroll until she managed to hang up.

Both soldiers were staring at her. “Did you just call Professor Ozpin?” the first asked.

“By his _first name_?” the one whose scroll she had used asked.

She chuckled. “Yeah,” she said sheepishly, returning the scroll. “I’ve been… MIA for a while. Ozpin’s my boss.”

“You’re a huntress,” the one who had let them in—the officer, she assumed—said. “Lost your equipment out there?”

She nodded. “And a few years of my life,” she said dryly. “He told us to wait here for a… bullhead, I think he called it.”

“You really have been gone a while,” said the second soldier, putting his phone away with a chuckle. “It should be here soon. You’re welcome to make yourselves comfortable. And who are you, mister?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Geralt said shortly. “Witcher. I’m the one who found her.”

“Witcher?” the officer asked. “Never heard of a Witcher.”

“That’s a trend,” Geralt agreed.

* * *

 

A few minutes of small talk later, a strange airship—smaller and sleeker than any Summer remembered—touched down near them. The door opened to a face she recognized.

“Major Ironwood!” she said with a smile. “Or… is it General now?”

“General,” he said slowly, looking her up and down. “It… really is you, isn’t it, Mrs. Rose?”

She laughed. “It is,” she said. “I’m back. Take me home, General.”

A genuine smile crossed the man’s stonelike features. “Gladly, Mrs. Rose. Climb aboard.”

Geralt followed her onto the ship with a nod to the General. She waved at the soldiers as the door closed. They waved back.

“And this must be your friend,” said Ironwood even as the floor began to shake for liftoff. “Hold on to something, both of you.”

Summer already was, and Geralt followed suit. “Geralt of Rivia,” he introduced himself. “Witcher. Yes, yes, I know—you haven’t heard of it.”

Ironwood raised an eyebrow, but Summer smacked Geralt playfully on the chest. “Behave,” she ordered. “I know you can.”

The witcher rolled his eyes at her. “I’ve talked more these past two days than I do most weeks,” he said dryly. “My throat hurts.”

Ironwood snorted, but Summer looked concernedly at her friend. “You’re very lonely, most of the time, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.

Geralt sighed, and suddenly she saw the wrinkles on his face and the whiteness of his hair and beard took on new meaning. “Less so when I have Ciri,” he said quietly. “But… the Path is walked alone, yes.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “We’ll find her,” she promised.

“I know,” he agreed.

* * *

 

Ozpin wasn’t the only one at the landing pad to greet her. Glynda, Peter Port, and Barty Oobleck were there too, as well as…

“Summer.” The man before her had aged much more than twelve years since she’d seen him last. No longer were his red eyes full of playful fire and brimming with life. They were tired, and old, and accustomed to sorrow, but now they were overflowing the joy. “It’s really you.”

“Qrow!” she exclaimed, embracing her teammate. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! Oh, we have to catch up! How have you been? What have you been up to?”

“Easy there, Summer,” Qrow said with a raspy chuckle—and goodness, he really _had_ aged; he sounded more like a man of sixty than a man in his late thirties. That hurt a little.

“We’ll have time,” Qrow promised, meeting her eyes. “We’ll all have time. But Ozpin needs to debrief you… and then we need to get everyone else here. Taiyang, Yang, Ruby… wouldn’t be fair to keep them away any longer than we have to.”

Summer nodded and turned to Ozpin, her grip on Qrow loosening. The white-haired headmaster was staring at her through his spectacles as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. His hands were actually shaking slightly on his cane.

“Summer Rose,” he said softly. “I had it on good authority you were dead, you know.”

She smiled and curtseyed as best she could, given the rages she was wearing. “Sorry to disappoint, Professor,” she giggled. “It’ll take more than that to get rid of me.”

“Don’t,” Ozpin said quietly, his eyes closing convulsively as if in pain. “Never say tha your return is a disappointment, Summer, even as a joke. You have no idea…” He swallowed visibly, and she was amazed at how totally shattered his composure was. Her return had affected him more than she would have believed. “I am so sorry, Summer,” he said quietly. “For everything. For my expectations, for the burden I placed on you… all of it. Can you ever forgive me?”

She smiled at him. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, blinking silver eyes. “I want the Grimm defeated as much as you do, Ozpin. Stop thinking of this as _your_ war—it’s _ours_.”

“I think there will be time for a more detailed discussion of this later,” Glynda said, putting a hand on Ozpin’s shoulder and giving Summer a rare smile. “For now… we should call your daughters an husband.”

“And who might this be?” Oobleck asked, zooming up to Geralt with his usual caffeinated rapidity. Geralt leaned back, bemused.

“Geralt,” said the Witcher shortly. “Full introduction after I’ve had water. Talked to too many people today already.”

Summer giggled. “He saved me,” she said. “Found me and got me out of the bind I was in. He needs your help, Ozpin.”

“I will be glad to give it in any way I can,” said Ozpin cordially. “We can discuss it after Summer has been reunited with her family.

Geralt nodded. “I’ll hold you to that,” he promised.

* * *

 

“M-Mom?” The word was whispered, as though the girl was afraid that she would disappear if startled.

Summer turned from the window, a smile coming to her face, but the sight of the fifteen-your-old teenager, with developing breasts, a long red cloak, liquid silver eyes, and a face pale with awe and wonder broke her heart and made the expression brittle.

“Ruby,” she whispered.

“MOM!” The dam broke, and the girl rushed to Summer’s waiting arms. The other girl followed her into the room—taller than Summer, with hair like spun gold—so like her father’s—and a face that looked like it had stepped out of a twenty-year old photograph of Summer’s partner (not to mention a form that put even that impressive woman to shame).

A strange dual expression of overwhelming joy and deep bitterness was written on this older child’s face. She stood silently, watching Summer hug the daylights out of her little sister.

“Yang,” murmured Summer, not content to give her eldest daughter that peace. “I’m so…”

“Could you have come back?” Yang interrupted sharply. “At any time before now?”

Summer shook her head mutely, not letting go of Ruby.

The look on Yang’s face broke, even as tears filled her eyes. “Then don’t you _dare_ apologize,” she said, running forward and joining her sister in the embrace. “I missed you, Mom.”

Summer’s eyes closed, her broken heart swelling with pride, even as she pressed her lips to on daughter’s cheek, and then to another’s, repeatedly.

She was home.

“Promise you won’t die again?” whispered Ruby, and her voice was broken with pain and joy. “Promise you won’t leave me again?”

Summer gripped her tightly. “Not any time soon,” she said. “When I die, it’ll be in bed, surrounded by grandchildren.” She chuckled. “Well, that last bit’s on you.”

Ruby clutched her tighter, sobbing freely. Yang soon joined in, and Summer didn’t hold out long after that.

When Taiyang finally arrived from his longer trip from Patch, it was to the sight of his wife and two daughters on the floor, sobbing into one another’s arms.

* * *

 

“I’m afraid I’ve neither seen nor heard of someone of that description,” Ozpin said apologetically.

Geralt nodded. “Can you help me any other way?” he asked. “Even coin will do something.”

Ozpin snorted. “What you have given me—given _us_ ,” he said, “is more valuable than any number of lien could measure, Geralt. I’ll give you ‘coin,’ certainly, but I insist you allow me to help you further.” Ozpin leaned forward over the desk, peering carefully at Geralt. “This Ciri is not your birth daughter, correct?”

“Witchers are sterile,” Geralt said, “so no.”

“Then let me be plain,” Ozpin said quietly. “Tit for tat. I will help you find your daughter… because you have helped me find mine.”

Geralt nodded. “Thank you,” he said. It wasn’t often a Witcher got this kind of respect or gratitude.

“Thank _you_ ,” Ozpin replied. “I will ask Ironwood to put out a notice, and contact Vacuo and Mistral myself. Take a couple of days to rest, and if nothing has turned up by then, we will begin to work more directly. Does that sound fair to you?”

Geralt chuckled roughly. “This is more generous than anyone else has ever been rewarding me, Professor,” he said honestly. “Really, thank you.”

“Then you must not have been working for especially good people,” Ozpin said simply. “It is no more than you did for me without assurance of any return.”

“Yeah, well,” Geralt said, scratching at his beard, “I have a feeling ‘especially good people’ don’t usually live that long back home. I’ve met a fair few here, though.”

“You’re welcome to stay, you know,” Ozpin offered. “Once you’ve found your daughter. Vale will have a place for you for as long as the kingdom stands.”

Geralt started at him for a moment and then sighed. “Honestly, I’m tempted,” he said. “I’ve followed the Path so long… too long. But I have other people back home besides Ciri, and it’s up to her anyway.”

“Well, we’ll be able to ask her for her opinion soon enough,” said Ozpin.”

Geralt nodded. “Yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So finishing Silver Tears (and, by extension, the Remnants serious impression of oneshots) left an impression on me. I keep wanting to go back and write more, to redress what I wrote there, to come back and be with those characters, in the same intimate, personal way I was while writing those character studies.
> 
> I can’t. It would be a disservice to what I’ve already written. But I can’t walk away either. Fortunately, I only have, what, a week and a half ‘til Volume 4 of RWBY, so hopefully the actual show will start to scratch that itch.
> 
> Until then… well, I posted two chapters of different RWBY-related stories in the past twenty-four hours, both written as an attempt to get over Silver Tears. I’m hoping I can get over this soon, because it’s starting to interfere with IRL work I need to do.

Geralt’s eyes went to the door as it opened. He’d been sitting in a rather comfortable chair, looking out the window of a vacant office at the great glowing city sprawled below the cliffs. He’d heard the approaching intruder long before they opened the door, of course, and hadn’t even been surprised when they’d opened the door.

He was as much a curiosity as they were to him.

The girl was golden-haired, tan, curvy like few Geralt had ever seen—and my, but that outfit was beyond anything a respectable woman would wear back home, practically nude whores notwithstanding—but it was her eyes which struck him.

Violet like flowers. Achingly familiar, and still shining with recently-shed tears.

He nodded at her, but said nothing.

“You’re Geralt, right?” she asked.

“Customary to give your name first,” he replied dryly.

She blinked and looked away. “Yang,” she said. “Yang Xiao Long. I’m… I’m Summer’s older daughter.”

He nodded slowly. He couldn’t see the resemblance, but that wasn’t a surefire guide in any case. “Well, you’re welcome,” he said. “Why aren’t you with her?”

Yang swallowed. He saw in her face uncertainty, nerves, all enshrouding a deep and abiding love. “She’s with Ruby and Dad,” she said. “I wanted to come meet you. And thank you.”

He shrugged. “I fight monsters,” he said. “I fought one there. I get paid for it; I got paid for that one. I’m glad I could help someone, but it’s my job. I realize it’s a big deal to you, but you don’t need to involve me any more than you want to.”

Yang’s brows furrowed and she met his eyes. “Why wouldn’t we want to involve you?” she asked blankly. “Or is that just a polite way of telling me to get lost?”

Geralt shook his head. “Maybe it’s habit,” he admitted. “Witchers may get paid, but they don’t get respect very often. It’s… jarring. But not unwelcome.”

Yang approached him. “Will you be staying in Vale long?” she asked.

Geralt shrugged. “No idea,” he said truthfully. “Looking for someone, and Ozpin’s helping me find her.”

“A lover?” Yang asked curiously.

Geralt snorted. “A daughter,” he corrected. “Ashen hair, green eyes, scar on her cheek. Let me know if you see her.”

“I will.”

“Thanks.”

There was silence.

Yang looked back over her shoulder. “I should get back to them. I just wanted to thank you personally.”

“Consider me thanked,” Geralt said, turning back to the window.

There was a rustle behind him as she bent towards him, and just as he was turning to see what she was doing, he felt her lips press to his cheek in a short, quick peck. Then she fled; he heard her heart racing as her boots pattered on the stone floor.

He looked after her for a moment before shaking his head and turning back to the window. There was a time, he reflected, when a show like that from a girl like her would have gotten his blood pumping, his heart racing—when he would have felt confident in getting her in bed within a day or two, and would have proceeded to do just that.

The thought wasn’t repulsive; it just held no appeal.

He turned back to the window. The metal city was like a vision of what Novigrad might look like in a few centuries.

He shook his head ruefully. What a strange world this was.

* * *

 

“Geralt!” Summer called to the Witcher from the table where she sat surrounded by her family. “Get over here and join us!”

It was dinner at Beacon Academy, and Ozpin had opened the dining hall to them. Summer had come down as it opened with her daughters and husband to meet their teammates. Geralt had only appeared now, half an hour later.

The white-haired swordsman strode over. “Summer,” he greeted with a nod, sitting down across from her as her daughters’ teammates—Weiss Schnee and Blake Beladonna—made space. “How you holding up?”

She felt her smile brittle slightly. “Fine,” she said, then shook herself and she glanced at Ruby. The smile widened and grew wide again. “Better than fine,” she said happily. “I’m home.”

Geralt’s lips twitched slightly. “You are,” he agreed.

“I have to thank you,” Taiyang said from Summer’s left, past Yang. “You have no idea what it means to me—to us… I thought for certain she was…”

Geralt’s eyes were old as he looked over at her husband. “I have an idea,” he said quietly. “Don’t mention it, really.”

“You’re a hero,” Ruby said softly, her silver eyes studying the Witcher across from her. “You really are. Thank you.”

Geralt shook his head roughly, his eyes sharpening as he met Summer’s younger (but still fifteen years old!) daughter’s gaze. “I’m really not,” he said flatly. “I’m a professional.”

“Professional hero, maybe,” said Weiss dryly.

“You’ve changed lives for the better,” said Blake, studying the white-haired man. “Why is it so hard to take credit for that?”

Geralt shook his head, looking down at his hands on the table. “A hero… volunteers,” he said quietly. “Goes above and beyond. More importantly, a hero is a symbol, and gets respect.” He looked up and met Blake’s eyes. “I just do my job,” he said frankly, “and then I get paid. If I save lives, that’s no more than your average village herbalist. And _they_ don’t kill nearly as many.”

“Maybe,” Summer agreed lightly, “but you kill _monsters_.”

“People too.”

Summer raised her brows at him. He rolled his eyes.

“And they’re usually also monsters, yes,” he acknowledged. “Doesn’t change the facts.”

“No,” Summer nodded. “But it does cast them in a better light—and a more honest one. No need to be so humble, Geralt.”

“I’m really not,” Geralt said slowly. “I’m going to get some food.” And with that, he got up and left the table, headed for the counter where the cooks were serving.

* * *

 

“Do you not like us?” the question, asked suddenly of a girl who appeared just as suddenly beside him as he walked down the hall, came as quite a surprise.

Geralt’s hand had jumped to his sword—the silver, not the steel—before he’d had time to think. The only things he knew of which could sneak up on him like that were all allergic to the precious metal.

He blinked down at the crimson-haired girl beside him for a moment before sighing and dropping his hand. “Be careful,” he said roughly. “Could’ve killed you.”

“Probably not,” the girl shrugged. “But really. Do you not like us? Me, Yang, and Dad? I think you like Mom, but everyone likes Mom.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “How did you sneak up on me, anyway?” he asked, continuing toward the guest room he’d been issued—a small, single-bed affair, like most university dorms.

“My Semblance is speed,” Ruby said by way of explanation. “Are you going to answer or not?”

Geralt grunted. “Hm. No, I like you all fine.”

“Then why do you avoid us?” Ruby pressed. “And why do you hate it when we talk about you?”

“It’s not that you’re talking about me,” Geralt corrected. “It’s what you’re saying.”

“What, that you’re a hero?”

“ _Yes_. Stop saying it.”

They walked on in silence for a time.

“Why?” Ruby asked at length.

Geralt turned to her sharply, a growl building in his throat. “Because _I’m not one_ , all right?” he said forcefully. “Most of the places I go, a hero would be useless. The world has plenty of heroes, Rose, always getting martyred for one cause or another. I can name a few friends of mine who are heroes—Roche, _Ciri_ , hell, maybe even Dijkstra.”

He turned back to the hall, but didn’t start walking again. “Most worlds I go to don’t need any more,” he said slowly. “Home definitely doesn’t. It needs a _professional_ , and that’s me.”

He glanced back at Ruby. “Here’s what makes me not a hero,” he said coldly. “I don’t work for free, I don’t always even _try_ to do what’s right, and I just generally don’t _care_ about other people’s problems until I’m paid to.”

There was silence for a moment as he continued. Ruby didn’t follow.

Before he reached a corner he heard her call behind him. “I know that last one’s not true,” she said.

He turned to her. Her silver eyes were large and concerned, and very like her mother’s. “You saved my mother before you were paid to. You cared.”

Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?” he asked.

She nodded. “That’s why I’m a hero-in training,” she said simply. “What’s your excuse?”

Geralt scowled. “If I save someone from a monster directly, there’s a good chance they’ll pay me,” he said, turning away. “That’s all.”

She didn’t follow him as he stalked off.

* * *

 

Geralt glanced at the door as the girl—Blake, her name was—walked in.

He’d been replenishing his stock of grenades at the desk in his small room, but now he turned in the swiveling chair (an ingenious invention) to look at her.

“You wanted something?” he asked.

“Professor Ozpin sent me to get you,” she said. “He says he’s found something.”

Geralt stood, alchemy forgotten. “Coming.”

Blake led him down the hall, and the Witcher didn’t miss the glances she sent his way.

“Your eyes,” Blake broke the silence eventually. “Are you a faunus?”

“No,” Geralt replied evenly. “Witcher mutations give us these eyes, along with a few other changes.”

“Witcher mutations?” Blake’s voice was curious, but also a touch afraid. It wasn’t a comfortable topic, but it was better than what Geralt got back home.

“The Trial of the Grasses,” Geralt elaborated. “We’re pumped with a cocktail of poisons, mutagenic formulae, and other nasty stuff, and we come out Witchers.”

Blake looked ill. “And you chose to become a Witcher anyway?”

Geralt snorted. “Choice didn’t get involved,” he said flatly. “Boy gets picked up under the age of five by some Witcher on the Path as reward for a job, brings him back to a school to train. The child isn’t asked.”

“Why do you stay, then?” Blake asked wonderingly. “If it’s so horrible?”

Geralt considered the question for a moment. “Don’t have much choice,” he said honestly. “Not many people back home would hire a ‘scurvy mutant.’ Besides, it’s not _all_ bad. Fighting monsters is good work, and if you’re good at it, it can even pay well enough.” He hesitated. “And honestly,” he added, “it’s not boring, at least.”

Blake shook her head. “I can sympathize with being seen as an animal,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Geralt said, having read up on faunus history.

Blake glanced sharply at him. “How’d you figure it out?” she asked lowly.

Geralt raised his eyebrows at her. “Your bow’s too stiff to just be fabric,” he said, “given how much the edges billow in the breeze, even just when you move.”

“It could be a frame,” Blake argued.

“A frame that twitches?”

Blake pinked slightly and looked away.

“Cat?” he asked.

She nodded. A pause. “How do you deal with it?” she asked softly.

Geralt shook his head. “You get used to it,” he said.

“I haven’t.”

“I’m probably more than five times your age,” he said dryly. “It’s still annoying, yeah, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Did it ever?” she asked suddenly. “For you?”

He hesitated before answering. “Occasionally,” he said at length, “when I was younger.”

Blake sighed. “I don’t want to _get used to it_ ,” she grumbled. “I want to _fix_ it.”

“Can’t fix everything,” Geralt said dryly.

“We can try,” she said stubbornly as they reached Ozpin’s office.

Geralt didn’t have the heart to argue; he just opened the door and passed her on his way in.

“Ah, Geralt,” Ozpin greeted from the desk. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“Haven’t had much to do these last couple of days,” Geralt admitted. “Been reading up on Dust, seeing if I can’t assimilate it into any of my formulae. But nothing important.”

Ozpin’s brows rose slightly. “Any progress?”

“Not yet,” Geralt shrugged. “Well, unless you count the groundbreaking revelation that I can put explosives into my grenades.”

“Indeed,” Ozpin agreed with a chuckle. “There is that.”

Geralt tapped on the man’s desk with a finger. “Blake said you found something?”

“Indeed,” Ozpin said, standing and pulling out one of those ingenious devices—scrolls—these people used. He tapped the screen once, twice, and then set it down on his desk, before coming around to Geralt’s side.

Above the desk an image in two dimensions flickered into being, as if via a megascope. It was still, and showed an image of a thinly-wooded forest. Between the trees on the right, Geralt could make out the lights and outline of a city in the distance.

“This was taken by an Atlesian surveillance camera outside the settlement of Windside,” Ozpin said. “Watch.”

He tapped the image and it began to move; a breeze kissed the leaves on the branches and the hissing was carried to Geralt’s ears, bringing with it the general chirping of crickets and frogs that accompanied night.

A black beast—a Grimm—crossed their field of view closely. It moved slowly, its claws dragging slightly over the earth with a faint flickering sound of displaced grass; clearly not agitated.

An Ursa, Geralt identified. Bearlike, robust, but relatively slow until it built momentum.

The Ursa made an idle chuffing sound, glancing around itself in apparent search of entertainment.

It seemed to find it. A sickly green light suffused the clearing from somewhere behind the image. The Ursa glanced above them, behind the hidden observers, tensed, then turned and fled.

Ozpin paused the image with a tap, the light’s organic quality freezing, the Grimm trapped mid-step. “In recorded history,” he said slowly, “Grimm have never fled from humans. A frightened Grimm is quite literally the stuff of fairy tales.”

“That wasn’t a human,” Geralt said. He’d recognized the distinctive luminosity. “That was a wraith, probably. Maybe a worse specter.”

Ozpin nodded slowly. “Let us continue,” he said slowly. “I think you will see why I was unsure.”

He tapped the image again and the Ursa’s escape resumed. There was a pause during which the receding black mass was all that could be seen, and then the unmistakable report of steel on steel rang through the night, along with a surprised, “Ha!” in a voice Geralt knew well.

“That’s her,” he said shortly, “or my hearing’s going. Which it isn’t.”

Ozpin nodded, having tapped the screen again when Geralt spoke. “I had a feeling,” he said. “You’ll see in a moment.”

There was a rustle of disturbed grass, and then a flash of green light—not the sickly wraith-green, but the brighter emerald of a time-step, and then Ciri was there, in the middle of the image, sword rasied, glaring at something over their heads.

There was a flicker and then the image died.

“Have you any idea what caused that, Geralt?” Ozpin asked. “The camera has been unresponsive since, but Atlas has been worried about sending someone to retrieve the equipment, given this.”

Geralt shook his head slowly. “Couldn’t say for certain without seeing the equipment,” he said. “It was probably the specter, but whether it just broke the machine while phasing through it, or took it out deliberately, I don’t know.”

Ozpin nodded. “I see. And that was Ciri?”

Geralt nodded firmly. “Definitely. You got this when?”

“ _I_ received it about half an hour ago,” Ozpin said. “Atlesian intelligence received the footage approximately a week ago. I was only sent it now after General Ironwood connected it to my inquiries about Ciri.”

Geralt nodded. “Then she was up north, around there, about a week ago,” he said. “Any ideas on how I should get there? I took a ferry when I left the northern continent.”

“I’ll have a bullhead requisitioned as soon as possible,” Ozpin said. “Do you mind if I deploy Huntsmen with you? Some of them could stand to learn to track, and I gather you’re rather good in that department.”

Geralt shrugged. “You could say that. I don’t mind. Who would you send?”

“Team RWBY, most likely,” Ozpin said. “Possibly JNPR. It rather depends on whether Summer wants to rejoin the active force so soon.”

Geralt nodded. “Send RWBY with Summer if she comes, keep them with her here if she doesn’t?”

“Precisely.” Ozpin studied him over his spectacles. “Do you have any recommendations in that regard?” he asked. “I admit I’m… uncertain of any lingering effects of Summer’s captivity.”

Geralt frowned as Ozpin returned to his seat. “Shouldn’t be too much,” he said slowly. “She might have a slightly decreased aura capacity, depending on how dry the incubus kept her all those years. She might be a little more susceptible to charms and other bewitchings for a while, but I should be able to spot anything like that a mile away.”

“I will make sure she gets her aura tested before being put back on duty,” Ozpin said with a nod. “Everything should be prepared in two days for you to take a team to Atlas to investigate.”

Geralt nodded. “Thank you, Professor,” he said. “Anything else you needed?”

Ozpin shook his head. “No, thank you, Geralt. I will let you know the moment anything changes.”

Geralt nodded and left.

* * *

 

“You called, Professor?” Summer asked, hands running idly up the fabric of her white cloak. It felt _good_ to be back in the old outfit.

“Yes, Summer,” Ozpin said. “Please, sit down.”

That meant this was going to be a potentially uncomfortable conversation. Summer sat.

Ozpin leaned forward and looked her in the eyes. “We have found a lead on Geralt’s missing woman,” he said. “He will be heading north to Atlas in two days to investigate.”

Summer cocked her head. “Into the city, or…”

“I expect he will go into the wilds himself to gather information,” Ozpin told her. “I intend to send a Huntsman student team with him, along with at least one full Huntsman. They could stand to learn from him; given how he methodically prepared for and dealt with your captor, he is clearly an experienced hunter, if not a Huntsman.”

Summer nodded, flesh crawling again at the thought of the decade spent in the hands of the incubus. “He’s definitely good at his job,” she confirmed. “If anyone could track this girl down, it’d be him. And the students could stand to learn from him, I guess.”

“Then we agree.” Ozpin pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and studied her through them. “Ideally, I would like to send your daughters’ team with him, but there is one complication.”

Summer frowned at him. “That being?”

“I’m not willing to tear them away from you so soon after your reunion.”

Everything clicked into place. “You want me to be the Huntsman tutor.”

“ _No._ ” Ozpin’s voice was sharp. “If I had my way, Summer, you would _never_ go into the field again, except that I doubt you’d be happy like that. I’m not in the habit of losing my star pupils twice. I very much do _not_ want you out there. But I want team RWBY to have this experience enough that I’m asking. If you feel comfortable returning to the field this soon, and if your aura test comes up positive, I will permit you to take Team RWBY on this mission. Otherwise, I will have one of the staff or Qrow take JNPR.”

Summer nodded. “My aura’s still a little low,” she admitted, “but I _think_ I’ll be back to full in two days. I’d… like to go, if that’s all right. Geralt’s a friend, and he might not be here much longer.”

Ozpin nodded slowly. “Very well,” he sighed. “I admit, I rather hoped you would refuse, but it’s entirely your choice. I have offered Geralt support should he choose to remain on remnant, by the way.”

Summer raised an eyebrow. “I assume he refused?”

“He said he was tempted,” Ozpin replied, “but that it was Ciri’s choice.”

Summer nodded slowly. “She’s really important to him.”

“Yes,” Ozpin agreed, an odd look in his eyes as he studied her face. “Yes, she is.”

* * *

 

“Ruby was right, you know.”

Geralt glanced up from his work. He was in the Beacon forge, sharpening and oiling his blades. The voice was Weiss Schnee’s. She had been in the forge a while, refilling the cartridges of her rapier, and had been glancing at him regularly when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Only now did she approach him directly.

“What about?” Geralt asked, turning back to his cloth, gently dipping it in the specter oil.

“You’re avoiding them. Ruby and her family.” Weiss sat down across the workbench from him. “Why?”

He looked up at her. “Habit?” he said dryly. “They keep calling me something I’m not.”

“I occasionally enjoy being called something I’m not,” Weiss said evenly, her eyes cool. “It’s better than some of the things I _am_. And there’s not much that isn’t worse than being a hero.”

“That,” Geralt said stonily, “is where we’ll have to disagree.”

“Oh?” Weiss said, raising an eyebrow. “And what would you say is _better_ than a hero?”

Geralt turned back to his work, withdrawing the cloth and carefully wringing it out back into the decanter. “Basically anything. Heroes,” he took the cloth in his fingers and carefully began running it along the edge of his silver sword, “die. It’s most of what they do. I generally prefer surviving.”

“Heroes,” Weiss said coldly, “do what no one else can.”

Geralt looked at her sharply, took in the cold edge to her voice and appearance, the untouched quality of her garb and accoutrements. “Heroes,” he said firmly, “get dragged through life by causes, and friends, and one ‘good fight’ after another, and wind up killed by one or another. No.” He slipped the cloth off of the blade and dropped it into the heated pot of water, where it hissed slightly. “I’ve got my job, and it’s the only one I can do. I’ll stick to it.”

“Is it so bad?” Weiss asked, “to have friends to fight for, and who will fight for you?”

Geralt glared at her. “I have a feeling, Schnee,” he said evenly, “that you and I have about the same amount of experience there: not much.”

Weiss swallowed convulsively. “I don’t drive people away,” she hissed.

“Good,” he said, standing up and slinging the silver behind his back. “Maybe one day you’ll be a hero.”

“ _Loneliness_ is not a barrier to heroism, Mr. Rivia,” Weiss said fiercely.

Geralt barked a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called _Mr. Rivia_ before,” he chuckled. “Just Geralt, please. And isn’t it?”

“No!”

“Ozpin, then,” Geralt said, cocking his head. “He’s probably responsible, in some way, for driving the Grimm back more than anyone else alive. But he’s not who you think of when you talk about heroes, is he?”

Weiss glared at him. “He’s a hero,” she said firmly.

“But not as much of one as, say, Summer?”

Weiss looked away.

“Here’s the basic differences between Summer and Ozpin,” Geralt said slowly. “Summer fights in the open, while Ozpin’s usually on the back end of things. Summer’s open, friendly, and _nice_ to people; Ozpin’s a chessmaster if I ever saw one, and he keeps his pieces at arm’s length. And Summer is _several orders of magnitude_ less effective than Ozpin is.” Geralt shrugged. “The fact that, in spite of that, _Summer_ ’s more of a hero should speak for itself.”

“It’s not at all that simple,” Weiss said.

“Maybe not,” Geralt agreed. “Ozpin, Summer, and I are all very different people. But Ozpin and I get something that you don’t, and maybe you never will. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“And what is that?” Weiss asked icily.

“Remnant’s like home,” Geralt said quietly. “It’s got enough heroes. What it needs is a professional.”

Weiss had nothing to say to that.

* * *

 

“Geralt,” Summer called after the man in the hallway. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Geralt turned. “Summer,” he said. “You need something?”

She smiled slightly. “Just to talk,” she said, coming forward. “First, I took Ozpin’s offer; if my Aura test comes through all right, I’ll be joining you in Atlas.”

Geralt looked away. “You… might want to talk to the girls about that,” he said gruffly. “I don’t think any of them like me very much. Except maybe Yang.”

Summer chuckled. “They _are_ insistent aren’t they?”

He frowned at her.

“Ruby told me,” she said with a smile, thinking about the small teen who, despite the intervening twelve years, was still recognizable as her daughter. “You’ve apparently managed to upset them all when they tried to understand your objections to being called a hero.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You’d think I’d insulted their families,” he said.

She giggled. “it’s the way they’d describe their chosen profession,” she said gently. “Don’t be _too_ hard on them.”

He shook his head. “They’re children,” he said. “Even if they’re old enough to be women, back home… they’re really not yet.”

“On that, we agree,” Summer said. “That’s why I think it’ll be good for them to spend a bit more time with you, before you leave; you have a lot to teach them, if they learn to listen.”

He frowned at her. “I’m not much of a teacher,” he warned.

“You taught Ciri, didn’t you?” Summer offered.

He looked away. “Vesemir did most of that,” he said. “Lambert, and Eskel helped. Yennefer was there, a lot of the time.”

“And yet, it’s you who calls her your daughter.”

Geralt twitched, ever-so-slightly. She took his hand.

“Maybe you’re not a hero,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t know; I’m not one either. But don’t sell yourself _too_ short, all right?”

He stared at her. “What do you mean, _you’re_ not a hero?” he asked blankly. “You’re what the girls all look to as the _example_ of one.”

Summer shook her head, smiling sadly. “I was once a lot like Ruby,” she said softly. “Dreaming of being a hero. Then I drove my best friend away, stole her husband’s heart, and got myself captured for twelve years. I kill Grimm, yes, but there’s so many of them. No, _Ozpin’s_ a hero; he figures out how we’re going to _win_. In the end, I’m just a soldier.”

Geralt shook his head slowly. “You know,” he said lowly, “I think we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one.”

Summer laughed. “I’ll talk to the girls,” she promised. “Get them to stop bothering you.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, and there was a fervent touch to his voice.

She giggled. “Come on,” she said, passing him and pulling him by the hand. “Let’s get some coffee. I’d like to hear more about Ciri.”

“You make me talk too much,” Geralt grumbled, but followed.

* * *

 

Geralt was already on the bullhead when Summer arrived, RWBY in tow. “Aura test came out fine,” she told him, stepping onto the vessel with a smile. “Still not _topped up_ , but I’m fit for duty.”

He frowned. “Be careful,” he warned. “That kind of prolonged draining can’t have been good for you.”

“Oh, it _wasn’t_ ,” she agreed fervently. “There was a time when I’d have been topped up from that kind of depletion in hours. My recovery rate’s shot, but it’s been getting better, apparently. I should be fine by the time we get to Atlas.”

_Her recovery rate was weakening._ Geralt’s mind couldn’t help intuiting the conclusion of that statement. _The incubus must have been weeks away, at most, from killing her and finding new prey. If her aura was regenerating too slowly, she wasn’t any good to him._ He wondered if she’d reached the same conclusion. He couldn’t tell; she was as good at Yennefer at keeping her thoughts from him, although she did it my smiling everything off.

“So are we going all the way to Atlas in this little bullhead?” Yang asked, looking a little nervous as she boarded. “They don’t have that kind of fuel capacity, do they?”

“Bullhead’s aren’t cleared for inter-kingdom flights,” Blake said. “I assume we have a connection to a larger airship somewhere.”

Summer nodded. “The bullhead will just take us as far as the city, actually,” she confirmed. “There’s already a passenger liner departing for Atlas in a couple of hours. We’ve got VIP tickets.”

“Cool!” Ruby said excitedly. “What do VIPs get?”

“Suites,” Weiss said shortly, “as well as access to the VIP dining room and observation deck. At least, that’s how it is in ATC liners.”

Ruby frowned at her partner. “A…TC?”

Weiss rolled her eyes. “Atlesian Transport Corporation,” she explained. “Father maintains close ties to the CEO.”

The bullhead doors closed. The five young women—young to varying degrees, admittedly—found seats. Summer sat beside Geralt immediately, and Ruby took the spot on her other side. The other three sat across from them.

“So, Mom,” Yang asked. “if we have suites, do you know how many?”

Summer shook her head. “The ATC had nothing like the moden liners when I was last around,” she said. “Weiss, do you know?”

“Likely three, unless Professor Ozpin requested special accommodations,” Weiss said. “The trip will likely last through the night. Each suite has two beds; how shall we split up?”

Summer shrugged. “No idea.”

“You all sure you can trust me overnight?” Geralt asked coolly, meeting Weiss’ eyes. She glared at him.

Summer elbowed him in the ribs. “Be nice,” she chided. “I’ll keep the scary Schnee away from you, if you insist.”

Geralt rolled his eyes at her, then looked down, closed his eyes. It was hard to meditate out of the customary kneel, but he could do it, and unless they needed him, he might as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of The Wolf in December. Less character work in this one; more plot. Which I think is fine; I needed to get that plot out of the way at some point. But it does mean I find this chapter less interesting than the last one, since this story is, at its heart, a character study.
> 
> Regardless, curious to see what you all think.

The girl in red settled onto the railing beside him, her silver eyes looking out over the waves rolling far below the airship. Geralt didn’t spare her a glance, his eyes unfocused as he looked over the water. His mind, though aware of his surroundings, was considering his plans once the vessel pulled into Atlas.

“Mom told us to stop bothering you about being a hero,” Ruby said by way of greeting.

Geralt snorted. “Good job,” he said.

She glanced over at him with narrowed eyes. “I came to apologize,” she said with a pout.

“Apology accepted,” Geralt said easily.

She huffed and turned back to the glass wall and the ocean below, but didn’t leave.

There was silence for a little while, before she broke it again. “What’s she like?”

Geralt blinked at her. “Who?”

“Your daughter,” Ruby said, not looking at him. “That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it?”

Geralt shrugged. “Safe bet,” he said. Then he sighed. “Don’t really know what to tell you, though. Ciri’s… complicated.”

“So are you,” Ruby said.

“So’s everyone.”

Another silence fell. The humming of the engines and the air filtration suffused the small space of the VIP observation deck, keeping the quiet from getting too stifling and dry.

“I think she’ll like you,” he said eventually. Ruby looked over at him. “She’s optimistic, like you. A lot of responsibility on her shoulders; has been since long before she was ready for it. She’s like you there, too.”

Ruby’s eyes flickered and she looked away. “What’s her story?” she asked.

Geralt frowned. “ _Long_ story, that,” he said. “As I see it, it starts with her being the daughter of the Nilfgaardian Emperor.”

Ruby’s head snapped to him. “You’re an _Emperor_?”

Geralt snorted in an incredulous laugh. “Oh, _hell_ no,” he said. “I took her in; that’s a story in itself, mind. And the man wasn’t even claiming to _be_ royalty when he had her… but that’s _also_ a long story. It all meant that Ciri was on her own for a lot of her first few years, and yet she was also being sought by Emhyr’s people.”

“Why was she alone?”

“That’s… partly my fault,” Geralt admitted. “I invoked the Law of Surprise on a job for her father once, and as payment got his firstborn to train as a Witcher. When I next saw her… I didn’t take her. I probably should have tried to, honestly… but I couldn’t have known. It took me a while to come around.”

“The Law of Surprise?” Ruby asked blankly. “What’s that?”

Geralt sighed. “You’re just _full_ of questions,” he grumbled. “The Law of Surprise is a way for a Witcher to ask for payment if the recipient of his services doesn’t have the coin to pay. Basically, the Witcher tells him to go home, and the first thing he sees upon arrival is the Witcher’s reward.”

“How do you make sure they pay you?” Ruby asked.

Geralt grinned. “Steel.”

“Right,” Ruby rolled her eyes. “Silly me. So she was a lost princess?”

“If only that was it,” Geralt muttered. “Emhyr I could deal with. No, she’s _also_ a source—a person with a natural affinity for magic. Sources are the stuff of legends back home, like your Four Maidens.”

Ruby’s eyes were wide. “She sounds like a fairy tale,” she mumbled.

Geralt snorted. “Fairy tales are neater,” he said. “And there’s more. Sources are usually descendants of an elven sorceress named Lara Dorren from way back. Ciri is, so she’s what they called a ‘child of the Elder Blood,’ too, and that comes with its own problems.”

“Like what?”

“I’m getting to that. The elves are split into two distinct groups: the Aen Seidhe, elves who live in my world and a couple of others; and the Aen Elle, who live in their own world and tend to think of themselves as better than everyone else. The Aen Elle think that when Lara Dorren had children by a human, she gave away something from their gene pool that they want back.”

Ruby looked sick. “So they wanted Ciri?”

Geralt nodded. “Specifically, Eredin, King of the Wild Hunt, made it his mission to hunt her down. Add to that the fact that Ciri can travel between worlds, and maybe even through time… Well, she was a target from the beginning.”

Ruby shook her head. “It’s like all the legends in the world decided to be about one person.”

“And then there was a prophecy.”

“I’m almost not surprised,” Ruby snorted. “What was it about?”

Geralt chuckled. “She was supposed to try to stop the end of the world, basically.”

Ruby blinked at him slowly. “So… the moment you heard that, you literally knew the end was nigh?”

“You’re starting to get it,” Geralt agreed. Then he massaged his throat. “Your curiosity’s killing me,” he grumbled. “I need a drink.”

Ruby glanced at her scroll. “Dining service just opened up,” she said. She smiled at him and held out a hand. “Shall we?”

He gave her a slight grin back and allowed himself to be pulled towards the meal.

**_ LINEBREAK! _ **

Summer saw Geralt and Ruby enter the dining room together, Ruby pulling the Witcher towards the group’s table insistently. The rest of them were already there, Summer sitting between Yang and Weiss, with Blake on Yang’s other side where Summer’s blonde daughter was holding a conversation with her—apparently, a discussion of a hypothetical battle between their classmate, Pyrrha Nikos, and Geralt. Summer had a feeling she knew which of the two would come out on top in such an encounter, but felt no need to intervene.

Summer smiled as the wayward members of their party sat down. “We haven’t ordered yet, don’t worry,” she assured them. “Where were you?”

“In the observation deck,” Ruby said. “Geralt was telling me about Ciri.”

“Oh?” Summer said, glancing between Ruby’s wide, excited smile and Geralt’s small, indulgent one. “I’d like to hear about her, too, you know.”

Ruby blinked, glanced at Geralt, and then giggled. “You know, I think I get how you felt when I asked,” she told him.

Geralt snorted. “Not exactly simple, is it?” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you about it another time, or Ruby will,” he said, reaching out for his crystal goblet and sipping water from it. “Talked too much.”

Summer put a hand to her lips to stifle her laughter. Geralt stared her down balefully.

“Guess now’s not a good time to interrogate you about your job?” Yang asked him, turning slightly from Blake.

He snorted. “Try again later,” he said. “Or at least after I’ve recovered.”

“Sure. Oh, Blake and I were talking,” she said, turning fully to face him. “We were wondering who would win if you fought Pyrrha—did you meet Pyrrha?”

Geralt nodded. “The redhead, right?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” Blake agreed, elbowing Yang. “Yang, _really_?”

“What?” Yang asked her blankly. “It’s a perfectly legitimate question!” she turned back to Geralt. “So, who do you think would win?”

“Me.” Geralt’s voice was even and his answer was fast.

“Pyrrha can control polarity,” Yang told him. “Magnetism. She could make your swords move in midair, that kind of thing.”

“Silver’s no more magnetic than gold,” Geralt said, meeting her eyes. “I’d just use the silver. But that’s not the important part.”

Yang frowned at that. Blake asked, “What is?”

Geralt took another drink of water. “You Huntresses train to fight Grimm,” he said. “Your weapons are based on what works against them. They’re your main enemy. But there’s a reason I carry the steel.”

Then the waitress—a pretty dog-faunus girl of about twenty—came to take their orders and the conversation was cut short.

**_ LINEBREAK! _ **

“Winter!” Weiss exclaimed as they disembarked from the vessel, flanked by the crew smiling plastic smiles and waving mechanically. Summer was pleased to see that some things never changed.

Weiss rushed away from the group in a flurry of white before aborting the motion just in front of a young woman in the grey and white of an Atlesian Specialist’s dress uniform. The woman’s hair was white, like Weiss’, and her eyes were a slightly darker shade of blue.

Weiss looked like she was moving to embrace the woman, but she visibly forced herself to stop and curtseyed instead. “I… wasn’t expecting you to be here to greet us, Winter,” she said, holding her voice even.

Summer smiled at the girl’s back. This was just adorable.

The woman didn’t smile, but Summer saw the amusement and affection in her face. “Weiss,” she greeted with a formal nod. “Aren’t you going to introduce your team?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Weiss said, flustered, turning back to them. “Winter, this…” She took Ruby’s arm and tugged her forward bodily. Summer giggled. “…is Ruby Rose, my team’s leader. That’s Yang Xiao Long, and Blake Belladonna. I’ve written you about all of them. _This_ ,” she gestured at Summer, “is Summer Rose, Ruby and Yang’s mother, and this is Geralt of Rivia,” with a nod at the Witcher, “who brought her back from the wilderness. Everyone, this is Winter Schnee, my sister.”

Winter nodded at Summer. “Mrs. Rose,” she greeted. “I’ve heard a good deal about you. It’s good that you’ve returned.”

Summer smiled at her, trying to stay in the present and not brood on what had kept her. “It’s good to be back, Specialist,” she said.

Winter looked pleasantly surprised at the use of her rank. With another nod, she turned to Geralt. “And you must be the ‘Witcher’ that has General Ironwood so intrigued,” she said with a nod.

Geralt, nodded from his position beside Summer. “Yeah. Have you seen the footage I’m here about?”

Winter nodded. “I have, but it’s classified. Straight to business, I see.” She looked over her shoulder and gestured, and three military men in suits came forward to take their luggage. Summer handed off her suitcase without complaint, but she saw Geralt pull his rucksack away from one of them sharply. To his credit, the man didn’t break professionalism; just moved on to Blake.

Winter turned on her heel and beckoned them. “Come,” she said. “I’ll be leading your military escort while you’re in Atlas, and we must discuss your plans.”

“Great,” muttered Geralt roughly, just on the edge of Summer’s hearing. “I hate military escorts.”

Summer chuckled and nudged him. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Geralt grunted noncommittally as they followed Winter through the terminal.

They were led outside and into a waiting limousine, long and sleek and black. Once they were inside, the soldiers packed their stuff into the trunk of the car and saluted Winter as the vehicle pulled out into the road.

“We are secure,” Winter said, turning to Geralt. “Now, as I understand it, the individual in that footage is the ‘Ciri’ you’re looking for?”

“What footage is this?” Summer cut in. “I haven’t seen it. I don’t think any of the rest of us have.”

“It will be available at headquarters,” Winter promised. “Normally, this conversation would be held off until then.”

“I can wait,” Geralt grunted. “We should all get on the same page first.”

**_ LINEBREAK! _ **

Winter showed them the footage once they arrived. Geralt scanned it for anything he might have missed on his first viewing, but found nothing.

Summer reached out and tapped the screen on which the footage had been shown, rewinding it to the image of Ciri, sword in hand, green-blue light playing around her.

“That’s Ciri?” she asked him.

He nodded, studying the image of the girl who had come to define so much of his life. “She was fighting a wraith, probably,” he said. “Definitely a specter.”

Winter steepled her fingers and considered him. “If you could brief us of these ‘wraiths’ as well as on the other possible ‘specters’ it could be, that would be helpful.”

Geralt nodded. “Wraiths—all specters, really—are immaterial most of the time. You can hit them while they’re like that, but it won’t do much. Their weapons are steel, though, and the weapons themselves have to phase into existence to hit you, so they can be blocked.”

“And how do we make the specters corporeal?” Winter asked. “Is there a way?”

Geralt grimaced. “You don’t really have the gear. I do, but I can’t supply a large group of people.”

Winter nodded. “Can a specter travel through solid matter, then?” she asked.

Geralt shook his head. “Not unless it’s magical, no.”

“Then some of us will at least be able to provide cover and obstacles,” Winter said thoughtfully.

“Have you ever tried gunfire?” Summer asked him.

Geralt shook his head. “I imagine it’d just be a more lethal version of using a crossbow, though, and the crossbow doesn’t do anything the sword doesn’t.”

“Dust rounds, perhaps?” Winter suggested.

Geralt scratched his chin, considering. “Igni’s effective,” he allowed. “It’s _more_ effective when they’re corporeal, mind. So I suppose burn Dust should work to some extent, and everything else probably will too.”

He shrugged. “None of this _really_ matters,” he added. “I’ve taken on damn near every specter in the book, usually alone, and I’m still here. If we encounter one, just stay out of my way.”

Winter’s lips twisted slightly. “Would you object if we were nearby, at least? I’ve been ordered to assist you, and I can’t in good conscience just leave you to fight this thing on your own.”

Geralt shrugged. “Can’t stop you,” he said. “If it’s a wraith, Ciri will probably have killed it weeks ago anyway. I’m just worried it might be something like a penitent that she _can’t_ kill.”

“What’s a penitent?” asked Yang.

“It’s a wraith that’s bound to a site where something truly horrible was done, and to the person who did it,” Geralt said, thinking of a lighthouse and a man driven to murder by greed. “In order to kill it, you have to get the person to repent and undo whatever they did, as best they can. On that topic, there’s a few thing’s I’ll need to know once we’re at the place, assuming it wasn’t just a wraith.”

“Very well,” Winter agreed. “A bullhead should be arriving…” she checked her scroll, “…two minutes ago, as it happens. Let us go.”

Geralt nodded and stood, following her out of the room, Summer and the girls right behind him.

**_ LINEBREAK! _ **

Summer leaned against a tree as she watched Geralt and the Atlesian technician do their work. The technician was examining the fried camera to see what had caused the damage, while Geralt was scanning the ground where Ciri had appeared in the footage.

“The equipment was overloaded, ma’am,” the technician said to Winter. “An aura projection of some kind, I think? Never seen anything like it.”

Geralt glanced over at Winter. “Your equipment can get overloaded by aura?”

Winter nodded, looking thoughtful. “Only if aura is channeled into them over a prolonged time,” she said. “Could a specter have done that?”

Geralt nodded. “Probably. Most of them are disembodied souls; just phasing into the thing could have fried it.”

Winter nodded slowly. Summer grimaced. “Disembodied souls?” she asked him. “As in…”

Geralt nodded. “Lot of theorists say that wraiths are what happens when someone dies suddenly without having a chance to get their affairs in order,” he said. “They’re generally tied to the place they died. The variations on the theme—penitents, hyms, noonwraiths and nightwraiths—are results of differences in that mode of death. On that note…” he knelt and brushed a patch of grass aside as if looking for something.

He seemed to find it, and look up quickly at the sun, which was at its zenith. “It’s a nightwraith,” he said firmly. “Gotta be.”

Winter blinked at him. “How can you tell?” she asked.

Geralt stood, a small ornate ring held carefully between two fingers. “Wedding ring,” he said. “Stained with old blood. A woman died with this on. The fact that it’s still here and wasn’t either stolen or buried means something kept people from it, and that means either a noonwraith or a nightwraith: the two specters born from romantic, violent deaths. Since it’s the middle of the day, we’d _know_ if it was a noonwraith.”

“How would we know?” Blake asked.

Geralt chuckled. “We’d be fighting for our lives already.” He looked at Winter. “Sounds like you can help after all. We need to figure out who this woman was, where she died, and the location she’s tied to.”

“Tied?” Summer asked.

Geralt nodded, his eyes darting around the area. “The nightwraith will appear each night at the place where her love, in life, was strongest. The wedding bed, maybe, or a place where she and her loved met. We need to find that place, wait for dusk, and I need to kill her there. That way she’ll stop coming. We can interrogate it then, too—ask where Ciri was headed.”

“Wait,” Yang asked sharply at that. “This thing _talks_?”

Geralt shrugged. “Probably. Depends on how long it’s been dead, the particular manner of death… a few factors. Most powerful specters can, though.”

“Can we just kill it, then?” Blake asked evenly, her golden eyes trained on the Witcher as he turned to her. “If it’s intelligent, can we just decide it needs to die like that?”

Geralt frowned at her. “Sapience and the ability to speak aren’t the same thing,” he said. “Not always. But it’s a question that’s worth asking, at least here on Remnant. Fine, tell you what: I won’t attack it until it attacks me. But if it does, and I’ll give it fair warning, I _will_ kill it. All right?”

“There’s no way it doesn’t attack, is there?” Summer asked him with a twitch of her lips at his loaded offer.

“None at all,” Geralt admitted.

Winter shook her head, having pulled out her scroll and tapped through it over the course of the conversation. “There’s a village near here,” she said. “Grimm attacks have lowered the population somewhat in recent years, as well as… disappearances. Those have always been attributed to the Grimm as well.”

“But some of them were probably the nightwraith,” Geralt agreed. “I need to talk to some of the inhabitants. They might know who this was; more importantly, someone might have seen Ciri.”

**_ LINEBREAK! _ **

_I need to stop hunting after the women in my life,_ Geralt decided as he stepped off of the bullhead, already looking over at the smiling ashen-haired girl among the townspeople. _They always just find me when they’re ready._

“Geralt!” Ciri cried happily, leaping forward and wrapping her arms around him. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Ciri,” Geralt said, smiling as he returned her embrace. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” Ciri said airily, breaking away from him, still beaming. “Walking the Path, you know?”

Geralt raised a brow. “You’ve been hunting?” he asked.

“Of course!” she said merrily. “What else would I be doing? In fact, these people gave me a contract just a few days ago!”

“Nightwraith,” Geralt said, nodding. “You already had a run-in with the thing about four weeks back.”

Ciri blinked at him. “Geralt, what?”

Geralt shrugged. “The nightwraith disabled an Atlesian security camera,” he explained, producing the wedding ring from his pocket and handing it to her. “I got the footage. This is the wraith’s anchor.”

“Well, if it’s a nightwraith,” Ciri mused, studying the ring, “I suppose someone must know who it could be. I should ask around.”

“Want help?” Summer’s voice asked from behind Geralt. He turned. She was smiling at the green-eyed girl. “You must be Ciri,” she said. “Summer Rose.”

Ciri nodded at her. “Call me Ciri,” she said. “So, Geralt,” she asked, stepping away and taking in the full party—Geralt, Summer, Winter, the four beacon students, an Atlesian tech and two soldiers. “Who are all of these people?”

Geralt chuckled. “Summer I helped out of a scrape in the wilderness,” he said. “Brought her back to her family. Two of the girls—Ruby and Yang—are her daughters; Winter, here, is Weiss’ sister, and those are her peons. And this is Blake.”

Blake waved.

Ciri giggled. “Well, I suppose friends of yours are friends of mine. It’ll be nice to work on a contract together again.”

Geralt grinned. “Lead the way,” he said.

**_ LINEBREAK! _ **

“So,” Ciri demanded as they sat together by the remnants of an old campfire. “Details, Geralt. I demand them. What exactly happened after we were separated?”

Geralt shrugged. “I went south; I guess you went north. I didn’t think I’d be able to pay my way on a boat back to Atlas, and I didn’t want to bother stowing away when I wasn’t sure you would. So I spent what I had to get a horse and rode down towards Vale.”

“And you found me on the way,” Summer put in from her perch on a branch above them, on the edge of the clearing. “That about right?”

Geralt nodded. “Found traces of an incubus—an old one, with a stable source of nourishment. Decided to investigate.”

Ciri grimaced. “Ah,” she said firmly. “Say no more.” She glanced at Summer. “How long?”

Summer smiled sadly at her. “Twelve years,” she said. “When I left, Ruby was a toddler. I come back and she’s attending Beacon.”

Ciri winced. “I’m so sorry,” she said sympathetically. “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

Summer smiled at her. “I’m sure you deal with your own share of problems, traveling with a man like Geralt,” she said with a chuckle.

Ciri snorted. “There’s something to that,” she allowed.

It was getting on to dusk, and Yang, Blake and Ruby had all nodded off some time before. Winter and Weiss had been in town, talking to the townspeople, trying to rebuild the connection of trust that once must have existed with the kingdom of Atlas.

It clearly didn’t now, or a Witcher would never have needed to be hired.

The reddening sun was casting thin beams through the leaves above them, painting the clearing in orange and green. The light played on Ciri’s face across from him, reflecting in her green eyes.

She yawned. “We’d best call the Schnees back,” she said. “Assuming they want to be here for the nightwraith.”

Geralt nodded and turned to Summer. “Give them a call?” he asked. “Ciri and I’ll wake the girls.”

Summer nodded and pulld out her scroll as Geralt crossed to the two young women, Ciri right behind him.

He knelt and gently shook Ruby’s shoulder. Beside him, Ciri gave Yang the same treatment. “Time to wake up,” he said softly as the girl’s eyelids flickered.

Silver eyes opened haltingly to meet his own. “Oh, Geralt,” she said dully, still half asleep. “Is it morning? Do I have class?”

Geralt smiled. “It’s evening,” he corrected, “and we have a nightwraith to fight.

She blinked at him, then shook her head to clear it. “Right,” she said. “Yes. Field trip. Mission. Atlas. Ciri. Right.” She stood up and stretched, then nudged Blake with a toe. “Blake,” she said firmly. “Catnap time is over.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Blake insisted, eyes opening immediately. “I was just resting my eyes.”

“Uh huh,” Yang agreed, accepting Ciri’s helping hand as she stood. “Sure, kitty-cat. Come on, let’s not keep the monster waiting.”

Geralt nodded at Ciri and together they returned to the old campfire even as Winter and Weiss returned, slipping through a break in the treeline, followed by their escort.

“So,” Winter said, all business. “Geralt, Ciri, you two will engage the monster directly while the rest of us hang to the sides to keep it in place, yes?”

Geralt nodded. “Stay a ways back,” he warned. “It’s fast.”

Winter nodded. “Of course, although we’re not exactly untrained,” she said, giving him a chiding look. “We will be ready with dust rounds to assist if necessary. You said you will not attack first, yes?”

Geralt nodded.

Ciri looked at him. “What’s that about?” she asked.

Geralt shrugged. “Blake was worried about it being sapient,” he told her.

Ciri looked bemused, but shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Well, be careful, all the same,” Winter said. “We await your mark.”

Geralt nodded, and turned to Ciri, who was fishing through her pouch. She soon produced the old wedding ring and tossed into the derelict fire-pit.

Geralt turned to face it. With a quick motion of his hand and a mumbled “Igni,” the fire was lit.

The sun took a few more minutes to sink below the trees. The moment it did, as the world suddenly grew dark, the light of the fire suddenly shifted, the warm red replaced with an eerie green.

Geralt reached for his silver even as Ciri drew her sword.

A thin mist flowed into the clearing, seemingly from nowhere. A faint hissing sound suffused the air.

“Oh, my,” Ciri breathed. Geralt glanced at her. She was smiling. “It’s like coming home,” she whispered.

Geralt chuckled, and reveled in the same fire in his blood.

“What the _hell_!” Yang roared suddenly.

Geralt spun, and there was the mark: hair billowing sickly as if in an invisible, graying skin rotting and breaking around the bone. The wraith was missing its lower jaw; its long, pestilent tongue lolled horribly about its front.

It wore what must once have been a white dress, but was now little more than a rag of wispy silk flapping thinly about its form. Its empty eyes were trained on Geralt’s face.

Out came the silver.

The nightwraith charged them. He and Ciri sidestepped in opposite directions and moved as one. Geralt dove for the ground, his hand moving, the mumbled word on his lips: “Yrden.”

Ciri slashed even as the violet glyphs appeared around them. The nightwraith materialized while her sword was halfway through it. It wailed as the metal, treated with specter oil, cleaved its flesh.

Geralt rose, his sword coming up with him in another slash, which he was forced to abort as it dove for him, emaciated hands outstretched.

He rolled to the side and pulled his crossbow with his left hand as he did. He rose kneeling and was already aiming for its head. A silver-tipped bolt found its way into one of its empty eyes. It screeched.

Then Ciri, in a flare of magic, was above it, sword already raised. She brought it down hard on its back, and the nightwraith vanished in a flash of white and a puff of smoke.

“It’s not over yet,” Geralt said harshly.

“I know that,” Ciri snapped at him as the smoke began to coalesce in three different places.

“ _They_ don’t!”

The three specters hissed at them and charged as one. Geralt spun, his sword providing a counterweight for his body, catching two of them as Ciri beheaded the third.

The three specters each faded into mist and the three distinct clouds returned to one another, reforming the singular monster. Geralt glanced around; the Yrden sign was fading.

The nightwraith leapt for him. He didn’t have time to cast. His fingers closed around the small orb on his belt and flicked out, tossing the grenade into the thing’s face.

The Moon Dust bomb exploded, casting slivers of silver all over the place. The nightwraith wailed as its incorporeality failed it once more.

Beside him, Ciri was holding some sort of ready position. Her knees were bent, and her eyes were closed, her face downturned.

Then she looked up, and there was a flash of green as she disappeared.

She reappeared right behind the monster, slashing at its back, before vanishing again, only to reappear at its side as it stumbled and strike it through the ribs. She vanished once more, reappearing at ots other side and bringing her sword down hard on its neck, the green light of her magic glimmering about her, making her seem as ethereal as her quarry.

With a sickening, tearing sound, the nightwraith’s head came free, rolling on the grass even as the body collapsed to the ground.

Ciri’s magic faded from the air slowly, the light lingering for a time around her form. She was breathing heavily, but there was a grin on her face. She turned to Geralt. “You’re getting slow, old man,” she crowed. “You could barely keep up!”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And _where_ was your Moon Dust, Ciri?”

She flushed. “I would’ve used it, but you were already going for it!”

Geralt raised a brow. “And the first time? You went for a sword before Yrden, Ciri. Against a specter. I may be getting old, but I think I’ve still got a fair bit to teach you.”

Ciri shook her head, smiling at him. “Probably,” she agreed.

“Well,” Sumemr said, stepping into the clearing. “ _That_ thing was certainly ugly.”

Geralt snorted. “Monsters tend to be,” he agreed. “Need a trophy, Ciri?”

Ciri wrinkled her nose. “Must I?”

Geralt looked at her amusedly. “You did most of the work already with that stunt you pulled,” he chuckled.

She pouted at him. “It _worked_ , didn’t it?”

Geralt rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“You certainly don’t need to take any part of that… _thing_ … with us,” Winter declared, coming forward, eyes trained on the nightwraith, a grimace on her face. “ _I_ will vouch for you, and I’ll see you paid from the military budget if that isn’t sufficient.”

Ciri shrugged. “These people haven’t ever hired a Witcher anyway,” she said. “It’s not as though they know how we do things. Come, let’s go tell the mayor the good news.”

Ruby caught up to Geralt as he followed Ciri back towards the town, his Witcher’s eyes making the now-darkening night easy to navigate. “So that’s the kind of thing you fight?” she asked slowly. “Monsters like that?”

Geralt nodded. “Not much like the Grimm, was it?” he asked.

Ruby shook her head. “It was more human,” she decided slowly. “More familiar. And scarier for it.”

Geralt nodded slowly. “There’s a common thread among the monsters I hunt,” he agreed. “Most of them eat humans—well, people; that includes elves, dwarves, faunus, et cetera—or were people, or are used by people, or some such: almost all of them, in some way, interact with people beyond just killing them. The Grimm aren’t like that.”

“You’d think that’d make the Grimm worse,” Ruby mumbled.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Geralt said dryly. “I tend to find that the monsters that _are_ people are the worst ones of all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to not stay up so late getting these done. Looks like we’ll be having a fourth chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends The Wolf in December. More extensive notes follow.
> 
> It’s not often I finish a project, but then, it’s not often my projects are of manageable length. I hope this feels as in-character as I think it does.

“It strikes me,” Summer told Ciri, “that finding you really wasn’t the ordeal I was expecting.”

They stood together in the terminal. Weiss was saying goodbye to Winter, with the rest of the girls for company. Geralt had annexed a corner of the waiting room and was on his knees, meditating.

Ciri shrugged. “It’s not as though I was hiding. Geralt worries, that’s all. He needn’t.”

Summer frowned at her. “He didn’t seem all that worried,” she said slowly. “I don’t think he ever seriously thought you might be in danger, at least.”

Ciri considered this. “I suppose he’s come to trust me,” she decided, a faint smile touching her lips. “Took the man long enough.”

“Hard not to trust you know what you’re doing once you save the world on your own,” said Geralt from his seat wryly, without opening his eyes.

Ciri chuckled. “It _is_ good to see you again,” she said.

The man’s lips turned upward. “I wasn’t worried,” he said. “I just missed you.”

Summer smiled as Ciri padded over to the man, knelt beside him, and put her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace gently, hes eyes still closed, a wide smile smoothing the lines from his face.

“Aw,” Ruby cooed softly from Summer’s side.

She glanced at her daughter. “Winter’s gone?” she asked.

Ruby nodded. “The others are coming,” she said. “Yang wanted to get snacks. Blake wanted tuna.”

Summer rolled her eyes. “Of course she did,” she giggled.

Ciri stood and came back over to them. “Ruby,” she greeted with a nod.

Ruby smiled at her. “Ciri,” she said. “Geralt told me about you.”

Ciri raised an eyebrow. “All good things, I hope?” she asked.

Ruby giggled. “Of course.”

Ciri rolled her eyes. “Have you been telling lies about me, Geralt?” she called over to the man, who snorted but didn’t reply.

“So, Ciri,” Summer said, putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and affectionately massaging them. “You and Geralt arrived where exactly?”

Ciri shrugged. “A few miles south of Port North,” she said. “We went into a settlement, got the very basics of Remnant, and then were separated when the settlement came under attack by the Grimm. Geralt went south when he couldn’t find me; I went north to see what Atlas was like.”

“Why Atlas?” Ruby asked curiously. “Why not come to Vale, or one of the other kingdoms?”

Ciri pursed her lips as she considered the question. “There was a world,” she said slowly, “which I found with my mentor, Avellac’h, while I was fleeing the Wild Hunt. In it, people grafted metal onto and into themselves to become stronger and more beautiful. No one walked anywhere, or rode horseback; everyone had their own flying car. They used rifles and gunpowder, like you, but it was the first world I’d found that did. It left an impression. From what I heard, Atlas resembled Night City. I thought I’d see if for myself.”

Summer cocked her head. “Was it?” she asked.

Ciri smiled slightly. “Not really,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll find it again, one day.”

“Are you going to leave soon, now that you’ve found Geralt?” Ruby asked quietly. Summer looked down at her daughter, and saw that she wasn’t looking at the woman before them.

Ciri’s smile grew sad and gentle. “Maybe not _too_ soon,” she said kindly. “I’m sure we can take our time. But… I’m ready to move on. If Geralt wants to stay I can wait a while, but I’ve seen enough of Remnant to remember.”

Summer considered her. “What are you looking for?” she asked slowly. “Are you just sightseeing from one world to another, or is there something specific?”

Ciri thought about that. “I’m not sure it has to be one or the other,” she said after a time. “Yes, I’m going from world to world just to see what there is to see, but… I think there might be something out there that’s… I don’t know, worth _seeing_. Something that will change my life if I can only find it. I imagine I’ll know it when I do.”

“And it’s not on Remnant?” Ruby asked.

Ciri shook her head. “No,” she said gently. “No, it isn’t.”

* * *

 

“Miss Ciri,” Ozpin said, standing from his chair as the party filed into his room. “It is good to meet you at last.”

“Professor Ozpin,” Ciri said, leaving Geralt’s side and stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for helping Geralt. I was beginning to worry about the old fool.”

Ozpin smiled. “It was the least I could do, I assure you.” He sat back down and picked up a mug resting on the desk, studying her over it. “Did Geralt tell you about my offer?” he asked.

She frowned and glanced back at Geralt. He shrugged at her, then nodded at Ozpin. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the Headmaster.

“No,” she said. “He didn’t. What offer?”

Ozpin’s face was perfectly even as he said, “I offered Geralt—and you, should you desire it—a home, here in Vale, should you not wish to continue your journey.”

Geralt had known Ciri’s answer from the beginning, of course. “No, thank you, Professor,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m not quite ready to settle down, yet.”

Ozpin nodded understandingly. “I see,” he said. “Well, the offer remains open for as long as I remain Headmaster of Beacon. But surely you needn’t rush away at once?”

Ciri looked at Geralt. “I’m in no hurry,” she said. “Geralt?”

Geralt shook his head. “No rush on my end,” he said.

She smiled and turned back to Ozpin. “We can stay a few days, then,” she said. “Do you have a place for us?”

Ozpin nodded. “Geralt’s quarters are still open, and I’m sure I can find a room for you as well,” he said, his hand brushing a button on his desk. “Glynda, can you check whether we have an open room near Geralt’s?”

The Huntress’ voice emanated from the desk. “There’s one down the hall,” she said. “Room… 426, I believe.”

“Thank you,” Ozpin said, turning back to Ciri. “Geralt and the others can lead the way,” he said. Let me know if you need anything at all.”

Ciri nodded. “Thank you, professor.” She turned and smiled at Geralt. “Well,” she asked, “shall we?”

“Hold a moment,” Ozpin said. “Geralt, Summer, if I could have a word?”

Ciri frowned at the man, but nodded. “I’ll wait outside,” she said.

“So will we,” Weiss agreed, bodily pushing her team out of the office. Ciri followed, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Ozpin considered the two of them silently for a moment.

“Professor?” Summer asked probingly. “Is something wrong?”

“On the contrary,” Ozpin said absently. “I’m… considering.” He turned to her. “Summer, how would you say the mission went?”

She shrugged. “Without a hitch,” she said. “Found Ciri, dealt with a monster… couldn’t have gone better, really.”

“And Team RWBY?” Ozpin pressed. “Would you say the experience was valuable for them?”

Summer nodded firmly. “Very,” she said. “Although I wish my daughters didn’t have to see that… _thing_ , that nightwraith, but I think they learned a lot from Geralt. I’ve never seen anyone fight quite like him—slow, tactical, and with a diverse toolkit. I think Weiss and Blake both have ideas on how to expand their styles already.”

Ozpin frowned as he considered this. “Good,” he said, almost to himself. “Very good.” He looked at the Witcher. “Geralt,” he said quietly. “I realize that this is probably futile, but I would like to modify my offer to you.”

Geralt frowned at him. “Ciri didn’t want to stay,” he said evenly.

“I think _you_ might,” Ozpin said quietly. “I’m an old man, Geralt—older than you, I don’t doubt. I know the signs.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “I’m older than I look,” he said evenly.

Ozpin chuckled. “Believe me, Geralt,” he said, “so am I. Much.” He sighed. “You said it yourself, when we first met,” he said. “You’ve followed the Path for a long time. I think you wouldn’t mind a place to rest.”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m not about to hang up my sword and call it done,” he said. In a flash, he remembered an older Witcher with hair whitened by age rather than mutation. “I’m old, but I’m not decrepit yet.”

“And that is why I’m modifying my offer,” Ozpin said. “My students will leave this school some of the best Huntsmen in the world, but you’ve shown that there’s a great deal they won’t know. I would trade a great deal for the opportunity to delve into that.”

Geralt blinked at him. “You want me to teach,” he said wonderingly.

Ozpin nodded. “You taught Ciri,” he said quietly, “and if the young woman who just left this office is anything to go by, you taught her well. I’d like my students to benefit from that.”

Geralt stared at the man blankly, barely able to keep up. “What would… what exactly would it entail?” he asked.

Ozpin shrugged. “Your salary is open to negotiation,” he said. “You would be given room and board in Beacon over the course of the school year and I would be happy to assist you in finding lodgings over the summer months. You would teach at least one, probably two or three, classes, which would each meet twice or three times a week. The curriculum would be largely up to your discretion, although we would have to discuss that in more detail. In addition, you would be expected to lead a team of students on at least one Hunting trip each semester.”

Geralt shook his head slowly. “You really want me to stay,” he said, barely able to believe it. “Why?”

Ozpin sighed. “If I may be candid?” he said tiredly. “Remnant is under threat by the Grimm, and possibly by worse things—monsters wo aren’t monstrous enough to see at first glance. This next generation of Huntsmen must be the very best I can produce, or I fear they may be the last. I need someone like you to help me; to make these students be the people they need to be.”

Ozpin stood and orbited his chair, looking out the window at Vale. “It’s as you said, Geralt,” he said quietly. “I have no shortage of heroes; I have young Ruby Rose, and her team, and more than a few who may well turn out like her. I need a professional.”

Geralt swallowed. “I can’t just leave Ciri,” he said slowly.

“She can take care of herself,” Ozpin said, turning to face him. “You know she can; you were barely worried when you came in here asking for help finding her.”

Geralt looked away. “I have people back home,” he said. “I can’t decide to never see them again.”

But even as he said it, his mind was jumping to megascopes, and Keira’s communicator, and ideas were coming into his head.

“Ciri could come by occasionally to visit surely?” Ozpin said. “And she could bring you back to your world, or bring people from it to see you.”

Geralt swallowed. “I have to think about this,” he said shortly.

“Please do,” Ozpin said quietly. “The only thing I’d like less than to have you leave is to have you stay and regret it. But do consider it.”

Geralt nodded. “I’ll let you know,” he said, before turning and striding out of the room, Summer following after a quick, “Later, Professor,” to the Headmaster.

* * *

 

_Knock, knock._

“Coming!” called Ruby’s high voice, and a moment later, the door opened.

Summer hugged her daughter. “Hey, Ruby,” she said. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not, Mom!” Ruby said happily and stepped aside, holding the door for her.

Summer scanned the dorm room as she entered. It wasn’t her first time here, of course, but she was always amazed at the way these four girls had managed to make total chaos feel like home.

…Even if the bunk beds looked like chandeliers waiting to be dropped…

Blake was laying back on her bed, head propped up on pillows, reading a book held in hands on her belly. Weiss was at her desk writing out some paper or other. Yang’s head poked out from her bed above Blake’s, looking over at the door.

“Hey, Mom,” she said with a grin.

Summer smiled at her. “Hello,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you all.” She gently shut the door behind her.

Blake lowered her book. Weiss put down her pen and looked over.

“What about?” Ruby asked, stepping away.

“The mission,” Summer said with a shrug, crossing over and sitting on Weiss’ bed. She glanced at the Schnee. “You don’t mind If I…?”

Weiss shook her head. “Not at all, Mrs. Rose,” she said.

Summer smiled at her, and then looked around at the team again. “Well, the mission, Geralt, Ciri… the nightwraith. I wanted your thoughts.”

A shudder went around the team at the mention of the monster. “That thing was creepy,” Ruby said lowly. “Geralt didn’t say it was going to be like _that_.”

Summer nodded. “It was a bit of a surprise, wasn’t it?” she asked rhetorically. “Blake, you wanted to see if it could be spared. Were you satisfied with how Geralt and Ciri handled it?”

Blake looked away. “Ciri thought I was being childish,” she said. “I just… Was it so naïve to not want to kill something intelligent? Or are they just callous?”

Summer shrugged. “Did Geralt seem to judge you for it?” she asked.

Blake shook her head slowly. “Maybe at first,” she said. “I think he just decided we didn’t have experience with it, so he humored me.”

“And were you satisfied?” Summer asked again. “Or did you think they should have tried harder?”

Blake glanced down at her hands, which had become intertwined on her belly, before looking back up at Summer. “I was satisfied,” she said firmly. “Geralt promised not to attack first, and that thing didn’t even try to talk. It would’ve killed them. And how were we supposed to contain something like that anyway? It was basically a Grimm that happened to be able to speak.”

“Except a lot uglier,” Yang put in with an exaggerated shudder. “Just… _ew_.”

Summer huffed a laugh. “Ew indeed,” she agreed. “Weiss, I expect it was nice to see your sister again?”

Weiss’ neutral expression broke into a genuine smile. “Very,” she said. “I’ve never really had the chance to watch her at work before.”

Summer frowned at her. “She didn’t do any fighting while we were there,” she said. “What do you mean, ‘at work?’”

Weiss considered the question. “Winter isn’t a Huntress,” she said slowly. “She’s an Atlesian Specialist. Certainly, she can fight, but her real job—or so she tells me—is acquiring and analyzing intelligence. _That_ she did a great deal of, working with Geralt to track down Ciri.”

“Speaking of Ciri,” Summer said, glancing at all of them. “What did you all think of her? Is she everything you expected?”

There was a pause as the team considered this.

“She’s nice,” Ruby said eventually. “I guess? She’s friendly; more than he is, definitely.”

Yang frowned at that. “Yeah,” she agreed slowly. “But… I don’t know, less honest?”

Blake glanced up at the bed above her. “How do you mean, Yang?” she asked. “I don’t think she’s _lied_ to us at any point.”

Weiss pursed her lips. “I… _think_ I understand, Yang,” she said slowly. “Ciri always seems like she’s forcing herself to play nice, doesn’t she? Geralt doesn’t bother.”

Summer interjected here. “Most people do,” she said wryly. “No one wants to make small talk as often as everyone else wants them to.”

“Maybe she’s just worse at it?” Yang suggested.

No one had any real response to that. At length, Ruby spoke again.

“She wasn’t worried about Geralt,” she said quietly. “He was looking everywhere for her, and she… what did she say she was doing?”

“Walking the Path,” Blake recited. “What does that mean?”

Geralt had told Summer this much. “It means she was… well, Witchering,” Summer said with a light laugh. “Selling her services, like Geralt does.”

“Right,” Ruby said, looking unhappy. “He was working so hard to find him, and it was like she just didn’t _care_!”

Summer smiled sadly. “Ciri’s young,” she said gently. “In that one way, she’s younger that you, Little Rose.”

Ruby blinked at her, flushing slightly at the twelve-year-old pet name. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Summer held out a hand to her daughter. Ruby took it, and she pulled the girl into a tight hug. “Children don’t usually worry about their parents,” she said quietly. “When they’re actively doing something dangerous, sure, but the general idea that something might happen to their parents doesn’t cross their mind. Ciri was sure Geralt would find her, and she decided to revel in a bit of freedom, I expect.”

Ruby clutched at her tighter as she spoke, and was silent when she finished.

“I’m going to miss Geralt,” Blake said slowly. “He’s not _nice_ , but… He’s wise, I guess.”

Yang, whose face had gone solemn as Ruby was pulled into Summer’s lap, cracked a wide smile. “He’s _Weiss_ , you say?”

Weiss groaned. “ _Yang_ ,” she said incredulously. “That was awful.”

“I’m here all semester,” Yang said proudly.

Summer chuckled.

Blake huffed. “Seriously, though,” she said, looking up at the bunk above her head with narrowed eyes. “I enjoyed talking to him. I think we all did—even you, Weiss.”

Weiss grumbled but didn’t argue. “I wonder if we could get the formula for the grenade he used,” she said instead. “We might need to deal with a specter on our own, one day.”

Summer nodded. “You might ask him,” she suggested.

Weiss nodded. “I think I shall, at dinner,” she said.

“Speaking of specters,” Yang said, looking serious, “is it scaring anyone else that we’ve never heard of ANY of these things, and yet apparently they’re all over the place?”

“Specters aren’t the only thing,” Summer said quietly.

Yang blinked at her. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Summer closed her eyes and clutched Ruby tighter. “I wonder—have any of you ever heard of succubi?”

“I have,” Blake said. “Ancient mythical creature. Supposedly, they were some kind of monster that looked like beautiful women and seduced men to drain their aura.”

Summer nodded. “Ever heard of incubi, then?” she asked, meeting the even gaze of her daughters’ teammate.

Blake frowned and shook her head.

“Male version,” Summer said quietly. “Same idea, though.”

Yang hissed a gasp. Summer didn’t look at her. Ruby nuzzled in closer.

Blake looked blank for a moment, and then her pupils dilated. Summer turned away, and looked out the window.

“They use magic to… bewitch their prey,” Summer said quietly. “If they can get someone to trust them an inch, they’ll take a mile. And before you know it, twelve years have gone by, and a Witcher’s waking you up.”

There was silence.

Ruby broke it by letting go of her mother convulsively and pulling away, turning from her, looking down. “Of all the unsolved disappearances and murders,” she wondered quietly, “how many could Geralt have solved? We need him; or, at least, we need his training.”

“Agreed,” Weiss said firmly. “We’ll talk to him over dinner about it.”

* * *

 

“Hello, Geralt, Ciri,” Weiss said as she sat down beside Ciri and across from Geralt at the dining commons, followed by her teammates. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything?”

Geralt shook his head. “Nothing in particular,” he said. “You need something?”

Weiss nodded, seemingly unsure. “Mrs. Rose told us what you saved her from,” she said eventually.

Geralt nodded, but didn’t speak.

“We were thinking…” Weiss said, and glanced at her teammates. “Well, we’ve encountered two monsters you’re trained to fight in the four weeks since we met you. If they’re so common, then we really need to know how to fight them.”

Geralt considered that. “They’re not _that_ common,” he said eventually. “Even back home, plenty of people can go their whole lives without ever seeing one, and they’re a lot rarer here.”

“Our mom,” Yang said darkly, “vanished for twelve years because of one of those things. Ruby and I can’t be the only people in the world to have a story like that. We need people who know how to do what you do.”

“Or, at the very least, we need people with your kit,” Blake put in. “Your equipment, and, I don’t know, some kind of encyclopedia of monsters? Does something like that exist?”

Geralt nodded. “Every Witcher keeps a bestiary,” he said.

“That, then,” Blake said. “Could you leave us a copy of yours, maybe?”

Geralt looked down. “Yeah, I could do that,” he said.

“Geralt?” Ciri asked curiously. “What’s wrong?”

He frowned and looked up, meeting his daughter’s eyes. “I need to talk to you after dinner,” he said quietly. “In private.”

* * *

 

“So what’s this about, Geralt?” Ciri asked, folding her arms and leaning against the wall of his room.

Geralt ran his fingers along the flat of the steel sword on his desk. And when had it become _his_ desk anyway? And his wall, and his room?

He shook his head and looked back at her. “Ozpin made me an offer before we went to find you,” he said quietly. “He offered us a place to stay.”

Ciri nodded slowly. “He said as much,” she said. “But we’re not ready to settle down yet, Geralt. I thought we…” and, by the way she trailed off and blinked wonderingly, she got it.

“You’re not,” he agreed tiredly, sitting back on the desk. “But I think I am, Ciri.”

Her arms came apart and fell to her sides. “You want to retire?”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m not _that_ old,” he said dryly. “But I’ve seen enough wonders across enough worlds for one lifetime, Ciri. I _like_ Remnant; I like being able to walk down the street without people spitting at me, and I like how easy it is to travel with their bullheads and airships…” He shook his head again. “Ozpin wants me to teach,” he said quietly. “He wants me to teach his students how to deal with monsters as well as Grimm. I want to take him up on it.”

Ciri looked away, out the window. “What about Yennefer?” she asked quietly. “And Dandelion, and Triss… Lambert, Eskel, and all the others.”

Geralt sighed. “I was hoping you and I could take one last trip back home,” he said. “Stop by Nilfgaard and Novigrad, find everyone… see if Yen wants to come, and give her a way to contact me if she doesn’t.”

Ciri met his eyes. “You’re willing to leave them all behind?” she asked.

He sighed. “Ciri, if you want me to stay, I will. I enjoy going around with you. I’ll stay if you want me.”

Ciri pushed off the wall, crossed the little room in a single step, and hugged him. He hugged her back, tightly.

“I love you,” she said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

He swallowed and nodded against her.

She let him go, and gripped his shoulders, looking up into his face, her green eyes searching his yellow ones. “The Path is walked alone,” she murmured. “I… suppose this is why.”

Geralt sighed. “It’s not anything mystical,” he said. “You have something you’re looking for.”

“And you’ve found it,” she agreed. “It doesn’t need to be anything more than that, does it?”

He shook his head. “I have time, though,” he said. “I’ll follow you a while yet, if you want me.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ll miss you dearly, Geralt, but I think I need this too.”

_The Path is walked alone._

“I’ll miss you too,” he said.

She sighed and looked out the window. “I suppose we should tell the headmaster,” she said quietly. “If you’re not coming, I’d best be off in the next couple of days.”

“You know you’re welcome to stay longer,” Geralt said, in knowing futility.

She chuckled. “Life’s short,” she said. “Mine more than yours. There’s so much to see, Geralt, and I have yet to be satisfied.”

Geralt chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said. “Tomorrow, or the day after, then?”

“The day after,” Ciri decided. “And I’ll come back in a few weeks to bring you back home.”

Geralt nodded. “Well, should we go talk to Ozpin?” he asked.

She smiled sadly and nodded. “I suppose so,” she said. “Lead on, Geralt.”

* * *

 

“Well, the second semester is set to begin soon,” Ozpin said slowly, leaning forward in his chair. “I suppose we could work in a time block for you at once, although you would likely not have very many students this term.”

Geralt shrugged. “As long as I have something to do,” he said.

Ozpin chuckled. “As I’m sure you know, Geralt,” he said, “there is always something to do. You’re sure of this?”

Geralt looked over at Ciri. She nodded resolutely.

“Yes,” he said, turning back to the headmaster. “I’m sure.”

Ozpin nodded. “I’m glad,” he said. “Thank you, Geralt—and you, Miss Ciri, for letting him go.”

She chuckled. “Even I couldn’t keep the old man on a leash,” she said. “I’ll miss him, but this is what he wants.”

“Well, I have a great deal of paperwork to fill out,” Ozpin said. “You’ll need a professorship, employment certification, et cetera. I’ll deal with that.” He tapped the button on his desk. “Glynda?” he said. “Geralt has accepted my offer. Can you see about getting him an office?”

“I’ll clear a room for him,” came the assistant headmaster’s voice. “Tell him I’m glad to have him on board, won’t you?”

“Glad to be, Professor,” Geralt put in.

“Call me Glynda, please,” said the woman on the other end of the transmission. “No titles between colleagues.”

Ozpin released the button. “I’ll need to make an announcement,” he said, “likely at breakfast tomorrow. Would you like to join me then?”

Geralt nodded. “Will do,” he agreed. “See you in the morning, Professor.”

“As Glynda said,” Ozpin corrected, “no titles between colleagues. Call me Ozpin, or I’ll be forced to call you by _your_ title… Professor.”

Geralt grimaced. “Fair enough, Ozpin,” he chuckled. “Later.”

* * *

 

“Mom?” Ruby asked slowly. “Why’s Geralt at the staff table?”

Summer blinked at her daughter, then whirled to look at the head of the dining commons where, yes, Geralt was sitting directly at Ozpin’s left, his yellow eyes surveying the room as he ate.

_Did he…_ she swallowed. “I have a guess,” she mumbled. “But…”

Ozpin stood, pushing himself up with the cane in his right hand, and pulled a microphone to his face.

“Students,” he said. “Please, if I could have your attention for just a few moments? You can return to eating shortly.”

It was a mark of the respect the man commanded that silence fell almost at once.

“To those of you who have not met him yet,” Ozpin said, nodding to the man at his left, “this is Geralt of Rivia. Recently, he rescued a huntress—a Beacon graduate—from the wilderness. He is trained as a Witcher: an order of warriors that few, if any, of you have heard of. His skillset is quite different from that of most huntsmen.

“It is my pleasure to announce that Geralt is willing to share these skills with our students. Starting next semester, he will be teaching the new Tools and Tactics 101 class. If you would, Geralt?”

Geralt stood and took the microphone, to Summer’s surprise. _Geralt, talking at the front of a room?_

“I don’t like talking at a crowd of people with better things to do,” Geralt said, his low voice rasping in the speakers, “so I’ll be brief. The class is going to be about adapting your kit to deal with special Grimm and other monsters, including other Huntsmen. We’ll be going over grenades, alchemical formulae, and other tricks you can keep up your sleeve to deal with unusual situations. Anyone who takes my class is going to come out with better plans for combat than just, ‘hit it ‘til it dies.’”

He handed the microphone back to Ozpin and sat down.

“Registration for Tools and Tactics 101 is now open,” Ozpin said. “Any students wishing to take it should report to my office, or to Professor Goodwitch’s, to sign up. Thank you, and you may return to your meal.”

He sat and tucked back into his food.

“Geralt’s _staying_?” Ruby asked blankly.

Summer looked over at her with a smile. “It looks like it,” she said. “And he’ll be teaching you, if you take his class.”

“Well,” Weiss said firmly. “ _I_ certainly will be.”

“We all will,” Yang said. “Right Ruby?”

“Right!” Ruby said excitedly. “And we should get Team JNPR to join us! Oh, this’ll be so much _fun_! Next semester will be a blast!”

Yang laughed. “Easy there, Sis,” she said. “Geralt’s not going to go easy on us, you know.”

“Of course not,” Blake said. “His class may well be our hardest. It _is_ an upper-division, and I doubt he’s familiar with the expected difficulty of an introductory course.”

“But it’ll be rewarding,” Summer said.

“That it will, Mrs. Rose,” Weiss agreed with a shard nod. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

 

“Well,” Ciri said, her hand slipping from his as she stepped away into the courtyard. “I really must be going.”

“You will always be welcome here,” Ozpin promised, taking her place beside Geralt. “Our door is always open to you.”

She gave the headmaster a smile. “Thank you, Professor,” she said, “and I will be back to take Geralt home in a couple weeks, as you know. But for now, at least, there’s far more to do.”

Ozpin nodded. “Wanderlust is a powerful thing,” he agreed. “I hope you quench it one day.”

Ciri smiled, and looked at Geralt. “Any last lessons to impart on your wayward pupil, Geralt?” she asked.

Geralt stepped forward and hugged her. “Just one,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to make friends you can trust, all right? The Path is walked alone, but that doesn’t mean you have to be alone at every step.”

She hugged him back. “I won’t,” she said. “I promise, Geralt.”

He let her go, stepped back. She smiled, green eyes shining with unshed tears.

“At least you’re not dead this time,” she said.

He snorted. “Goodbye, Ciri,” he said roughly.

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, and in a flash of green light, she was gone.

There was a beat of silence in the courtyard, and then Geralt turned and, ignoring the people around him—Ozpin, Summer, and Team RWBY—walked back into Beacon Academy. He had a class to prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before Blood and Wine and Miracle of Sound’s The Path, I could never have written this ending. After them? It feels right. I hope you all agree.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> There IS talk of a sequel. Digolgrin, a friend on this site off whom I frequently bounce ideas, planted the idea in my head (my displeasure at being given ANOTHER plot bunny for what was supposed to be a short idea became known quickly: as he put it, “Your meltdown was legendary.”)
> 
> In case it somehow wasn’t clear, this was, from start to finish, something of a character study. This fourth chapter WOULD have contained a great deal of analytical work on Ciri, but the perspective, as constrained to Geralt and Summer, didn’t allow it. I could have extended it, but I thought it better to get a bit more work done on Geralt instead.
> 
> As to that work? Here’s some of my notes on the analysis.
> 
> Geralt and Ruby:
> 
> Ruby Rose is, at the time of this story (between Volumes 1 and 2) still very much an idealistic and even naïve young woman. That blurb does not even come close to her depth of character, but most of you likely know that, and know what I’m getting at. This makes her a fantastic foil for Geralt. Admittedly, I didn’t explore that as much as I could have. The primary places where I did were her two conversations with Geralt. In both I touched on the theme of heroism, approaching it from different angles.
> 
> The important point is that Ruby and Geralt interact with respect to heroism. The Witcher has an interesting view of heroism, one which it never directly addresses. Geralt does not consider himself a hero, but very few people in his world do. Ciri certainly doesn’t, and yet the two of them quite literally save the world.
> 
> Compare to Ruby, who sees Huntsmen as heroes and wants to join them—as she puts it, to help people. But to her, heroism isn’t a concept complex enough to analyze. She hasn’t thought about it, whereas Geralt has—if only in passing, over his near-century of living—and so she and Geralt are bound to disagree with respect to it.
> 
> Geralt and Weiss:
> 
> I really didn’t have a good way to tie these two together as closely as I should have. They really are similar characters in a few key ways. They both epitomize solitude: a few of Weiss’ most powerful character moments, in canon, are moments in lonely silence: the plane ride to Atlas in the company of her father, only seen through a single shot in Volume 3; the entirety of the ‘singing’ portion of the White Trailer; her appearance in Volume 4 Chapter 1… Weiss, as a character, is a study in the paradox of introverted loneliness. She likes her solitude, and yet needs company.
> 
> Geralt is the logical resolution of that very paradox. Where Weiss struggles with her contradictory needs, Geralt has managed to satisfy both. He can walk the world entirely alone, and yet, because he can trust his few, scattered friends, he manages to satiate his need for company when he meets them on the Path. In the conversation between the two characters in Chapter 2, I attempted to address that connection: Weiss is angry on behalf of one of her few friends, and Geralt, insightful as always, turns the conversation to friendship.
> 
> Geralt and Blake:
> 
> These two share the surface connection of both being ostracized, but that connection is actually flimsier than it might seem. Geralt may not have chosen to become a Witcher, but there were ways around that. In The Witcher 3, we saw a retired Witcher who had become a successful merchant. Clearly, the glass ceiling for a ‘scurvy mutant’ isn’t an insurmountable one. No Witcher has ever died in his bed, they say, but there are so few Witchers in general that I can almost believe that it’s for lack of trying.  
> Compare to Blake. We haven’t seen as much of the anti-Faunus racism as I would like, for this analysis, but we’ve seen enough. Cardin can be openly racist in public places and only get uncomfortable looks. There are a total of, what, two or three known Faunus students at Beacon—in spite of the fact that, in Ozpin’s words, he prides himself on running an Academy open to “all walks of life.”
> 
> Witchers certainly aren’t treated well, but you’d be hard pressed to find anyone not safe and sound in a walled city who wouldn’t grudgingly admit they’re necessary. The faunus, by contrast, are defended by the educated and the intelligent, and are reviled by the underclasses. That makes for a much more pervasive environment of prejudice. I tried to address that difference, to some extent, in the conversation between the two in Chapter 2.
> 
> Geralt and Yang really don’t have that much common ground. If I write a sequel, I hope to explore what they do.
> 
> The primary themes of this story relate to heroism and family, but I’ll leave those for the readers to explore. Can’t give up everything, can I?

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus, these characters are hard. Yang’s always been a really fun character to write, but Ruby’s hard AF—fortunately, she had only a little screen time. Summer’s functionally similar to an OC with how little we know about her, so fleshing her out wasn’t too bad.
> 
> And then, of course, there’s Geralt, who’s really fun but is hard enough to get right that I attribute the lack of Witcher fanfiction to him alone.
> 
> (Side note: It's really odd to have Geralt be the one with the unusually archaic vernacular for once. Normally, he's a couple of centuries ahead of his contemporaries.)
> 
> Let me know if anything was particularly stupid. I feel bad about the lack of excitement in the ‘action’ sequence (if it can be called that) but I really didn’t want to devote a couple hundred words to a choreographed fight in a story like this. Didn’t seem to serve the actual purpose.
> 
> As always, reviews and comments are appreciated but not mandated—I’ll update, when I can, regardless of whether you do.


End file.
